


Becoming Pride

by Kazia0002



Series: Pride [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Arlathan, F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, Past, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Suicide Attempt, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kazia0002/pseuds/Kazia0002
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Counting sheep is a lousy way of forcing sleep to come. I know it’s pretty much pointless when I lose my count for the third time somewhere in three thousands. It is all psychological on my part... And without much basis whatsoever. And for a moment, it is tempting to find the pills, and drug myself to sweet oblivion.<br/>But I try it again, anyway; because I refuse to allow my fears to rule over me.<br/>One lousy sheep jumps over fence.<br/>Two brown-nosed future meatballs jump over the fence.<br/>Three directionally challenged furry monstrosities jump over the fence…</p><p>Part one of a three-part rewrite to my other fanfiction, Pride. Some changes to the plot and storyline, but will follow the original's events faithfully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreaming...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite Legends - Two Steps From Hell

Opening the door, I gracelessly stumble into my flat, nearly tripping over shoes strewn on the floor. Cursing loudly at the world in general, and weather in particular, I shrug off my wet coat and throw it over the chair in the corner. I make a beeline for the bathroom scattering clothes on my way and immediately start filling my tub with hot water. Checking the temperature, I recount today’s unfortunate events, which contributed to my wretched condition.

I dislike Mondays at the best of times. Something about the perspective of five continuous days of work and studying sets off the grumpy side in me. This one, however, established a new standard for low, coming straight from purgatory.

As I woke up and looked through the window above my bed, my mood instantly plummeted down. Grey skies  and strong gusts of wind rousing the leaves on the walkways were both wretched manifestations of the autumn in full swing. It was merely drizzling when I exited the building, but by the time I have reached bus station the rain became a heavy downpour. My umbrella proved a completely ineffective defence against the ferocity  of thunderstorm and by the time I reached work, I was thoroughly drenched.

Shivering and blue-nosed, I faced a stern glare from the hotel receptionist. She glanced disdainfully at the droplets of water falling down from my clothes on the priceless carpet; and sniffing with clear disapproval, shooed me away to the changing room.

Feeling like a misbehaving child, I meekly followed her directions. Keeping out of customers' sight so that they would not be shocked by my drowned rat impersonation, I wondered whether sneaking out some towels from the storage would be possible. And if any of the hankies remained after Martha’s flooding disaster last week.

I managed to get myself presentable and felt hopeful that the worst was already behind me. These hopes were soon dashed when I have been saddled with a particularly troublesome client. I received a lengthy, heated lecture from red-faced man, one of the unfortunately quite influential, and quite frequent visitors. His status meant that I was forced to endure quietly his shouting, rather than speaking about his dissatisfaction with the service, as he flailed his hands in agitation in front of my face. I couldn't comprehend what was the actual problem, since judging from his words **everything** was subpar, below expectations. Of course, considering the regularity of his appearances here, that was rather unlikely to be true. By the end, I was fairly certain he was simply venting his spleen, and the trouble which had him so enraged was in no way connected to my work. Unfortunately, it did not give me any right to excuse myself. I had to grit my teeth, smiling falsely and nodding politely right until the end. Oh, the many joys of being part of the room service.

After my shift has ended, I had to rush to my University. Changing from my uniform to the still-wet clothes was another kind of torture. While rain had subsided, the wind remained unrelenting, and with moist material sticking to my skin my teeth were soon chattering again. Grimly I had begun constructing excuses I would have to offer for my inevitable sick leave in the coming days.

The unpleasantness of my attire and cold seeping into my bones were hardly a conducive learning conditions. It is no wonder my mind was not up for the rigorous questioning I faced from my economics professor; and I have gotten, very much deservedly so, steamrolled in front of the group. Needless to say, my already poor mood had gotten much poorer.

And then, on the way back, I got into pointless argument with a clearly battle-hardened elderly lady who was convinced I had pushed her on purpose. The very idea reviled me. My nerves snapped and I replied harshly, instead of simply ignoring her. Of course, that only edged the woman on, and she screeched derisive words for the following ten minutes of the ride. I was glad to be gone from it, even as I walked back out into cold once more.

Glancing at the water level, I turn the tap off. Hissing softly when the heat stings my skin, I submerge myself in warmth. My muscles relax, and the stress after today’s disaster seeps out of my bones. It is pure bliss, and it takes quite a while before I convince myself to rouse from the tub. My phone has to ring for the third time in a row before I feel sufficiently motivated. Dripping all over the floor, encased in towel, I flick the cell open and impatiently accept the call.

Then I spend five minutes heatedly explaining to Tim why today is not the day I would love to go clubbing. My best friend has been circling over my other friend Lisa for years, and despite the passage of time, asking her straight out seems beyond his capabilities. Usually I don’t mind playing a chaperone to their shy flirting, but today I did not feel like being a third wheel to the budding relationship. Especially since my own boyfriend and companion on these outings is abroad, and being constantly reminded of this is not how I have envisioned my evening after such hellish beginning of the week.

I do not mince words telling Tim to get on with it and leave me the hell alone, adding a few scathing remarks about the weather and his questionable sanity before cutting the conversation short. I grab a quick meal of yesterday’s leftovers and leaving the washing up for the morning, grab my current book from the table. Leisurely curling beneath the covers of my bed, I sigh with content. Not even thirty minutes pass, when the book slips from between my limp fingers. My breathing evens and my lids drop, lulled by the pleasant warmth.

My eyes open on a green glade, surrounded by dense forest. Rich grass with colourful flowers springs beneath my feet. Majestic trees create a comfortable shade proudly reaching to the skies, so large I can barely see their peaks. A stream crosses the glade, its crystal water glistening like silver scales. It’s not in a straight line but takes many sharper and softer turns, random slithering in the grass worthy of a snake. On the edge of the clearing where the ground suddenly drops, a formation of rocks created a small waterfall. The rays of sun glimmer with a myriad of colours as they pass through droplets of water, creating a rainbow-like phenomenon.

The picturesque beauty of the surroundings immerses me completely, it takes me a while to notice there’s something a little bit off in the image. The trees differ from those I am familiar with, the leaves shaped differently, the colouring more varied and brighter. The small flowers and bushes are completely unrecognizable; shaped in myriad of strange forms.

As I look up, I gasp in astonishment. The skies are so unbelievably high and so unusually coloured! I shield my eyes from the sun, admiring the strange, green tint of the air, easily noticeable contrast from the pale blue I am used to.

There’s no doubt whatsoever left in my mind – I am not on Earth, anymore.

I am so lost in my exploration of the wonders around, I do not notice another presence in the vicinity, until a decidedly young voice calls out from behind me,

‘Ahn elgar ma?’

I whirl around and stare, struck speechless. When I thought nothing could surprise me in my dreams anymore… Never before had I beheld such a flawless beauty in a human being. The youth before me - not a human, I correct myself, noticing decidedly pointy ears - is shimmering in shades of gold, enhanced by the light of sun. Flaxen hair, bright skin, eyes of dark amber with sparkling glitter inside. A certain kind of dignity emanates from his very being, an undefinable quality that makes me want to get close to him, touch him, and never let go. Fascinating. A little golden elfling.

‘Ahn elgar ma?’ He repeats with a ring of growing impatience, and I shake off my stupor. The lack of response has been very rude on my part, I realise with chagrin. But what can I really say?

‘I don’t understand you.’ Is what I settle for, carefully keeping my voice even and unthreatening.

His eyes widen a fraction, and I can easily read his interest. He beckons me to follow him and leads onto a trail through the forest to its outskirts. I can see a reasonably sized building, which I judge to be some kind of workshop, once I enter the premises. There are sketches and diagrams on the table, and many half-finished projects scattered around. The floor is littered with scraps of materials glowing strangely. I can’t even begin to imagine what most of these originate from, not to mention what could be their use.

The clutter is nearly as interesting as the elf itself; and I deeply regret my inability to touch – it turns out I am completely incorporeal. I would have loved to examine the stuff more closely, probe the glowing aura, and discover the purpose of them. The language barrier becomes even more of a hassle as I look around with curiosity, bursting from unanswered questions. Who is he? How come he has such place at his disposal - and apparently, he is the chief inventor? What exactly is this place?

Fortunately, it seems the elfling is just as frustrated by our communication issue as I am. My enthusiasm translates into attentiveness, and the arduous learning process begins. We start with basics; I point out the objects around us, and he patiently pronounces them for me to understand. I suppose it should have been surprising, this patience so atypical for one of his age. Children get easily discouraged; but before I realize the unusualness of his behaviour, I already take it for granted.

Repetition after repetition, word after word. I struggle with intonation and accent, but in spite of difficulties make a steady progress. The more I learn, the more I find myself captivated in the beauty of his speech, and am further encouraged to make an effort.

Time flies, and I begin appreciating the advantages of incorporeal body, needing neither rest nor sustenance. The small elfling needs his rest, however, and there are people - servants, I presume - delivering meals for him. I still find it strange that his parents, or caretakers, allowed him such independence without any supervision. But I do not dare condemn them for it without knowing more of the local situation and customs. Especially since the child – June, because we finally got past the introduction – seems very self-reliant. June, the golden youngster of incomparable talent. I think it is somehow fitting.

When sun sets and his movements become sluggish, I urge him with a few clear gestures to not hesitate on my account and rest. With a hint of uneasiness he finally complies, while I spend the night wandering in the vicinity. I admire the stars of unknown constellations, and two moons illuminating the darkness. The forest is quiet around me, and this, more than anything, convinces me we are truly in the wilds. There’s no bustle of any civilization around us, nor city lights disturbing the darkness.

Off-hand it makes me wonder how these servants, delivering child’s sustenance, get here. And how they get back, as well. But aware that the concept is far too complicated to enquire about with gestures, I store it away for later.

Come morning, I return to the hut-turned-workshop; the golden one is already up and tapping his foot on the floor with irritably crossed arms and sweet pout on face. I smile apologetically; and we immediately return to my lessons.

Days pass through my fingers like sand; countless and unnoticeable. It is only after a while that I notice he has been neglecting - to put it mildly; more accurate would be to have said **abandoned** \- his work for my sake. I feel a surge of guilt and consequently - a burst of motivation, glancing at the many undoubtedly fantastic projects around. It would be profoundly ungrateful of me not to give it my all.

We finally get to the stage of exchanging first, somewhat coherent sentences; when a ringing noise assaults my ears. At first, I cannot understand what is happening, jolting and looking around wildly. The source appears to be near; and yet I cannot see it. And then I have a feeling of rapidly falling down, and see a sudden flash of light.

With a gasp, my eyes snap open, and I blink rapidly adjusting them to subdued brightness  of autumn’s morning.

At first I am dazed, and hit my hand against the side table while reaching to turn off the still ringing alarm clock. The sudden, unexpected pain is a sharp reminder of the physicality of my body. There is a feeling of astonishment; all these days spent in my turned out to be merely a moment. But soon, looking at the situation calmly, I am forced to admit there’s nothing unexpected about it. Truthfully it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

The alarm begins ringing again. With annoyed grown, I half-heartedly throw a pillow in its direction, unwilling to make my limbs extend more effort, and risk another bruise. A loud crash, and the offending sound is gone. Emotionlessly, I glance at the sad wreckage lying on the floor  – yep, no way around it; I’ll have to buy a new one. This, too, is not particularly unusual. Alarm clocks around me have a short life expectation.

The day is spent in a restless haze, as June’s words occupy my mind, clear and unforgettable and melodious. I walk with my head in clouds, reminiscing the wonders of the new world I’m to explore, drawn to my pencils like a moth to flame. I end up scribbling disjointed sketches on random scraps of paper, and earn an earful from my boss for it. I shrug it off a bit distractedly – I did deserve it, but I do not even bother pretending to be remorseful. I am not a very good liar.

My co-workers exchange knowing glances, and a less involving work is pushed my way. I suppose it is not the first time I have felt inspired; and they are already aware that saying anything is pointless. I would just disregard their reproachful advices, and go on doing my thing. Luckily for me, because I am usually a very diligent employee my occasional painting-induced slumps are tolerated.

It does not diminish my gratitude for their gentle interference. I love my painting, but I need work to support myself, too. I would hate being forced to choose between one or the other. 

I catch something to eat on my way back; not interested in cooking when there’s just myself at home. Without pausing, I nearly run to my study, swiftly changing my more formal clothing for comfortable tracksuit and worn-down apron with splashes of paint all over it. Biting down on my lip in concentration, in practiced, smooth lines I attempt to do justice to the golden haired elfling I saw in my dreams, bringing life on canvas. What comes out is far from what I saw – the figure too bulky and proportions a bit skewed – but I managed to capture the curiosity in his eyes, so all in all it’s not a terrible first attempt. With a thoughtful frown I take a step back, and consider the result. Deciding I attempted to follow human physique too much I scrap the sketch and begin again. The elf was much more slender, his chest clearly narrower; he had this ethereal fragility while somehow remaining firmly rooted in the surrounding him reality. I want to capture that, and with his sweet voice ringing in my head, I feel a surge of inspiration.

I wonder whether trying to bring ones dreams to the canvas is too unusual. Whether depicting sound and smell and illusion is impossible. I never had any formal schooling; I haven’t gone to Art School or had any private lessons. My parents were disapproving of my hobby, and the amount of time it consumed - I had barely convinced them to send me for a two-week summer painting  camp, and even that happened only once. So I have to say I am mostly self-taught; my knowledge of shading and perspective and all the technicalities is not up to par with other artists. But what I lack in training, I more than make up for with my vivid imagination and stubbornness.

I know I will try again, over and over until I get it right.  

Finally my hands are dying on me, so I put the pencils away and clean the smudges off. Looking into the mirror I notice I managed to dirty my cheek with a charcoal. I shake my head in self-mockery and wipe it off. Grabbing textbook from the shelf I cross the corridor and throw myself onto the bed. Telling myself firmly that exams are closing in, I attempt to focus on the tax laws in front of me. However, in spite of my best intentions, by the end of second chapter I doze off.

Familiar sight greets me, once I open my eyes. With practiced familiarity, I find the hidden trail, treading through the woods. Skipping lightly, I make my way to elfling’s workshop, reaching with my hands to touch the leaves of the bushes I walk by. I do not mind that instead of disturbing them, my hands pass through them instead - that’s just how I am, here.

My progress with the language has been considerable, but it leaves me partially frustrated as well. I cannot seem to produce the same musical notes while speaking as June does, no matter how hard I try. Still, we are able to finally have a few disjointed conversations. He tells me he comes here for peace and quiet; that he can find his focus here. Feeling contrite for disturbing his sanctuary, I try to apologize, but he waves my words away impatiently.

 _‘If I minded your presence, I would have made you go away.’_ He says, and for some reason, I do not doubt he could have.

June is someone important, I always knew; but he dismisses my inept questions without direct answers. He asks for my name, one day.

 _‘I wonder, what manner of spirit are you?_ ’ He has a serious look on his face, measuring me from head to toe. I feel like blushing, and had I not been a whitish mist of human form, rather than a corporeal being, I would have. I can only shrug in response.

 _‘Don’t know’_ I reply artlessly. To begin with, I do not fully understand his question.

 _‘Do you have a name?’_ He asks suddenly, abandoning his former pursuit of seizing me up. I feel even more thrown off by this - why wouldn’t I have a name? He told me his weeks ago. Are spirits here typically nameless? Feeling a need for caution, I consider it carefully, before replying:

 _‘Call me Fean’Na.’_ For some reason, I am not comfortable with telling my real name. Too many books, maybe, where giving one’s true name means relinquishing control? I don’t know. I feel somewhat ridiculous, worrying about it – it’s only a dream after all. It ends up a strange cross between my name and how the words in his language sound. Yet, surprisingly, it is a liberating feeling, being able to create your persona from scratch. I can be whomever I want here; there are no constraints or preconceived notions. My whole being here is merely a white foam of vaguely humanoid shape gifted with voice and personality; I can make it to my liking.

‘ _Come, Fean’Na. You shall be my assistant, from now on.’_ The authoritative tone sounds strange in the mouth of one so young. But there is a mischievous twinkle in his eyes which disarms me and I nod helplessly.

My so-called assistant position is, of course, a complete farce. I am of no use to June, with my incorporeal hands incapable of doing any physical work, and my lack of understanding of the workings of the world preventing any conceptual assistance. But June does not mind my overall uselessness, simply appreciating my company; and I enjoy watching him work.

Rays of sunshine fall on his head through the thick roof of the forest, creating an enchanting aureole of gold glitter. His eyes are opened widely, as he observes without blinking a flow of golden energy pumping from his hands into a round object in front of him. In complete focus he manipulates his fingers, directing the strands of gold into different shapes, before sealing them into the artifact. A sheen of sweat covers appears on his forehead, but June does not realize anything for hours to come. I watch over his shoulder the process, until the child finally sighs, and smiles at me with triumphant satisfaction.

Bewildered, I look at him without understanding. The glass-like ball looks no different to whence he had begun; aside from the residue glow of his magic. But then, he picks it up from the table, and, looking at me meaningfully, drops it. And my mouth hang open, because the ball does not drop, kept in the air by the power he had infused it with.

 _‘Amazing, June, amazing!’_ I clap my hands soundlessly in praise. My vocabulary is, sadly, too limited to express my amazement with his feat; but he can read all of my admiration in my awed gaze, and preens proudly.

June nods sagely, and I stifle the urge to laugh at how ridiculous such seriousness looks on his childish features.

 _‘I rather expected it would be.’_ He says proudly without any hint of uncertainty; unaware of my hidden amusement. He must have been sure of the result; and suddenly, I realize that June might be even more unusual than I have believed.

The following weeks pass for me in similar manner. I am able to converse on more and more complex matters with June. He says that in reality, he is over two hundred years old; and is very sullen after my disbelieving reaction. I observe him cautiously after this talk, trying to see the signs of it. Yes, he seems unusually serious for a child but… Two centuries? Really? The cute pout on his lips, and puffed up cheeks are very much resembling my young cousin, who has just had eleventh birthday last month.

June is like a curious cat, having found a new toy. He asks me countless questions of the things I have seen both during my everyday life, and in my dreams. It is refreshing that he does not question or point out that the many things I have seen like teleportation gates or summoning of large creatures are impossible. Rather, he speculates how it could be made to work in his reality. It is a much different approach than my friends, who simply like to listen to my stories. June analyses everything from a technical, so to speak, point of view. How something could have worked; which rules had to be bent. He absorbs it all like a sponge, and is always eager for more. After our discussions, countless diagrams are drawn and analysed, and then he puts them into his shelf – as he calls it – of projects to-be.

Time in my dreams passes considerably faster than it does in reality; and thus I have spent many months - slowly tuning into years, observing June’s work, while only a two weeks had passed in my life. I have grown more proficient in painting him; only just beginning to do some justice to his stunning beauty. Of course, with this new phase of my being lost in the new inspiration, I have to somehow make time for it. With University and work having higher priority, my social life invariably suffers. Fortunately, my friends have known me for many years, and do not take personally my repeated rejections of their offers to meet up. They know, that as usual, it will pass once the novelty of the inspiration wears off, and that I’ll be able to show them my new creations.

There are days when the adjusting to the peculiarities of June’s reality and mine takes a real effort. Having spent days upon days of lazily floating without much any effort or actual needs, rude awakening of the alarm clock is unwelcome. A languid pace of the dream world contrasts strongly with the hectic, fast-paced lifestyle of my daily life. It tends to throw me off balance; and it shows. My friends are starting to get worried, ever so slightly – usually, the phase of initial fascination with new inspiration would have passed by now. Yet there’s no sign of it from me, I am as involved in June’s world as I was at the very beginning of this adventure.

What the genius child is showing me fascinates me so much I can’t bear to look away even for a moment. I abhor and detest the awakenings which pull me away from the green-coated world; I have seen a lot of wonders in my life but never the fashioning of such magic. June is incredibly skilled. And now that I’ve given him countless ideas to consider, his magic takes on new shapes and shines in many colours while he tests and plays and creates.

I am rendered speechless when the mirror in front of him stops reflecting us, and instead shows a grey pathway. However, the moment June lifts his head, the image flickers, and then bursts in magical overload which destroys the metal frame and splinters the reflective surface into pieces. The backlash sends both me and June into the wall, but while I remain largely unaffected, June is knocked unconscious. A sharp piece of mirror cut a bleeding wound on June’s chest.

Never before had I felt so helpless. I scream and beg and plead, trying to wake him up. I attempt to pick up bandages, cloth, **anything** to stop the blood flow; but of course all of my efforts are in vain. Everything falls through my weightless body.

However, it seems some sort of alarm was set up in the workshop because soon, some of the servants I have seen previously come rushing through. They pick June up, and carry him away. I follow some distance, but when they mount griffons and fly away, I give up. There’s just no way for me to keep up with these winged creatures.

I linger around the workshop listlessly, worried. June returns after a couple of days, completely healed. I breathe a sigh of relief, while he apologises profusely for his mistake.

 _‘I ought to have been more careful. The damage seems to have diminished you.’_ His eyes flitter over my figure regretfully.

I look down and note that indeed, the white foam that makes up my body is more see-through than before. I hadn’t felt anything at all – had he not mentioned it, I wouldn’t have known. I wonder, is my existence here so fleeting I would not have noticed anything until my complete dissipation? Possibly. Without any clear indicator, any needs to be fulfilled, without pain – there’s nothing to measure against.

And what would be the effect of my death in the dream world on my life in reality? My carelessness suddenly makes me scared. Would I be able to return at all?

These considerations accompany me until awakening. I spend the day even more lost in thought than usual. Fortunately it’s Saturday, or the patience of my employer with me would have finally ended. I stare blankly at the canvas, and half-finished image of June looks back at me. Is it possible for me to die in the dream? I have never imagined my death. What would it be like?

‘Joanne. Joanne!’ Male hand suddenly lands on my shoulder, making me jump in place. I spin around, and face my smiling boyfriend.

 ‘Jeff! You scared the hell out of me.’ I hug him in welcome. ‘I thought you were coming back sometime next week.’

‘We managed to wrap up the project earlier, and I decided to make it a surprise.’ His eyes light up, and I smile back in automatic response. ‘You were pretty out of it.’ Jeff looks behind me at the painting and stiffens, his good mood evaporating on spot.

‘Don’t tell me… again?’

‘So it appears.’ I try to keep my answer light-hearted, even though my heart squirms uneasily at the coldness of his voice.

Jeff pulls away from me with clear disapproval, and leaves the room loudly closing the door behind him.

I can’t help the troubled sigh. On one hand, I am very glad to have him back. But on the other…


	2. Everyday...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Croatian Rhapsody - Maksim Mrvica

It is strange, I guess, to be anything but overjoyed at one’s beloved return after long absence. And yet, here I am, procrastinating before entering our joined bedroom…

The core of the disagreement between us is, and has always been related to my dreams.

My dreams have always been bright, vivid in colours – lifelike. I journeyed wondreous lands, observed unusual creatures and constructs. Worlds of fantasy, taken straight out of adventure books, with powerful magic or advanced technology – or both, vying for domination. I saw romance and war. Magic and power. Great achievements and amazing feats. Even when I was too small to fully understand it all, I was enraptured.

When I was younger, I accepted it without question, and shared it without restraint. It invited ridicule from my playmates, and through the bitter experience of general rejection I have learned that it was not the same for everyone. No, in this single case, I was unlike anyone else. Special.

But this special was by no means useful. I was not brighter than anyone, nor had I any unique talent. In fact, it was more of a bother than an asset. It made me easily distracted, I would suddenly recall scenes from my dreams in the middle of some task and pause, gazing into the distance like a moonstruck idiot. It prevented me from being impressed by anything I ever saw in the world surrounding me; it could not compare to the wonders I have already seen. And it gave me multiple complexes, mostly related to my own mundanity – because all of the heroes in my imagination were amazing people achieving unbelievable feats, and yet here I was… living my life just like everyone else.

It was a thorny path for a child, and later teenager. At first, after the initial rejection, I pretended to be like the others. I kept a tight lid over my imaginary travels, and the experiences – to myself. And I learned to lie. When the Girl Who Spoke With Animals found her mother, I cried tears of happiness and came to school with puffy, bloodshot eyes – but I explained it with a death of movie character. I trembled in fear on behalf of the Crimson Knight, as he first saw a dragon; so much that I could hardly focus on my schoolwork, and failed to bring a passing mark home for the first time. But I told my teacher that I saw dog biting a street cat, and that it was the reason for my slip.

But then I went to high school, where I met Tim. Or, to be more accurate, renewed my acquaintance with him. Tim used to go to the same preschool as me, and for some reason he remembered my stories, even after all this time. He made it hard to fit in; constantly nagging me about my dreams even though I faked ignorance. It made my other classmates curious, and I was getting tired of pretending.

‘But you grew out of this childishness, didn’t you?’ One of the girls asked once, looking at me with expectantly raised eyebrow. I bit back instinctively sarcastic response to one of my age making such adult-sounding statement. But when similar insensitive remarks came one after another, I noticed the futility of my actions thus far – attempting to fit in made me more miserable than not fitting in would have. Tim’s presence gave me the push I needed to realize this, and when I said,

‘Actually, I still enjoy my fantasies,’ I said with full acceptance of the consequences. The girls in my clique sent me weird looks, and after a few days passed I was not surprised to find myself progressively more marginalized. They had begun excluding me from hangouts and meetings. I felt both discouraged and annoyed it took so little to completely turn around their attitudes towards me, and did not fight for my place. If their friendship was so fragile, it was not worth having. Before long, I was completely alone, with no one to open my mouth to in the classroom.

Tim saved me, back then. He did not have classes with me, but whenever there was a break he invariably came and pestered me for attention. Left with no alternatives, I begun responding to his questions – and slowly, step by step, stopped being ashamed of my dreams.

These events propelled a major personality changes at the tender age of fifteen. I’ve learned to be more open with those close to me; those I’ve trusted. I became more curious of the world; which helped to establish a clear dividing line between reality and my dreams. It was a necessary adjustment – because as I gained in years, the time I spent in dream world grew. Finally, it could span weeks while in reality it was only single night. Without a strong sense of self, I would have gotten completely lost in my life.

Tim was the rock I leaned onto. He listened to my stories, which after years of silence came pouring out like a flood. I never fully understood the initial reasons for his loyalty – I certainly don't think I did anything to deserve it - but he fought for my attention unabashed by my rebuffs until he succeeded. He was my best friend, one who helped me grow as a person and accept parts of me I tried to hide. I am grateful to him till this day.

Tim was the one to suggest I needed something to express them; to stop bottling up and allowing them to occupy my thoughts. With a warm smile, he told me it would not be fair if he was the only one to know of these wonders. It was on his advice that I’ve picked up painting.

I could have tried other things, I suppose. But I had attempted writing and it just didn’t work. The strings of words were jumbled and plain insufficient to express the colours and magic and adventure. Or maybe I was just a bad writer. Since no other medium attracted me, I turned to painting.

My parents disapproved. They considered it a terrible waste of time, and pushed me towards other things. I was a loner, and it worried them; obviously painting did not encourage new acquaintances. My hobby also further propelled my sedentary lifestyle and with their obsession regarding mental and physical healthiness, I was constantly threatened with obesity. The irony was that I was actually too thin for my age, and when I went to see a physician after achieving majority I was informed I have always had an eating disorder. I am simply not hungry often enough.

But I was happy. During my third year in high school, Lisa transferred from abroad. She has been an odd duck, a bundle of impetuous sunshine and unending energy, with complete lack of self-awareness or tact. It did not endear other girls to her. She was naturally drawn to other social outcasts - namely ourselves - and before long she was a constant companion to our discussions. Tim was soon captivated by her; even though it took him years to admit it. And then even longer to try and do something about it. Lisa has remained completely oblivious of his attraction till this day. Watching their interactions has brought me heaps and bounds of amusement.

Suddenly instead of two there were three, but they never made me feel excluded or misplaced. On the contrary, most of our meetings revolved around the most recent adventures I have observed in the faraway worlds.

I had spent over a year continuing a particular imaginary story of mine, observing a life of a youth who trained dragons. He had begun from merely a stable boy, but through hard work and determination rose to the ranks of the prominent, meriting himself a dragon of his own, and a hand of his beau. I was cheering him on, as I flittered around his life, through hardships and happiness, up until he got himself an heir to continue the family’s honour. Then the visions changed, and I let go of my Dragon Knight, and turned to face another, fantastic, adventure.

His storyline was my first real painting success. On Lisa’s advice, I’ve tried sending a few of my works to a gallery. Surprisingly, I’ve received mostly positive reviews from critics, and I actually sold some of them. I can’t say who was more shocked by this turn of events – my parents, or myself. But finally, they’ve stopped criticizing my hobby so much, and begrudgingly admitted there might be some merit in it. I was actually a bit miffed by their evaluation of my passion solely on the monetary basis; but in the end, Tim argued me around. As long as they have stopped protesting I ought to be happy, and not look too closely at the reasons for the change.

To appease my parents, I went to study economics. To satisfy my need for independence, I chose an University far away from home. Tim and Lisa also decided to go with me, although their chosen majors were more in accordance to their preferences – Lisa decided to be a vet, while Tim pursued language studies and spent long hours in libraries deciphering old manuscripts in their original form.

I told him he was nuts; most of them had already been translated to the modern English and why would he add work to his plate unnecessarily? Laughingly, he countered that I was the one to speak. I pouted, and finally he said that lots of details were lost in the translation – in his opinion – and that the hunt for hidden undertones made it all worthwhile.

Balancing work, studies, and my very time-consuming, dream-inspired painting was no mean feat. My friends proved true time and time again, when I abandoned all contact in favour of locking myself in University’s painting study for hours to no end. But, once my phase has ended, I showed them my works adding more depth to them with detailed explanations of the circumstances and backgrounds behind places and scenes.

The Charming Rogue won some minor art award, and on the day of the award ceremony I accidentally bumped into Jeff. Literally bumped into him, spilling champagne from my glass onto his very expensive suit.

My following heartfelt apologies were summarily waved off.

‘I wanted an excuse to get out of here anyway.’ His warm brown eyes were laughing, lacking even a hint of anger.

‘Still, I am quite certain you could have figured out a more comfortable getaway.’ I replied contritely.

We struck a conversation, and ended up laughing once we realized he was still dripping wet and I was still holding an empty glass. Somehow, we exchanged contact information, and I promised to cover his cleaning bill.

Jeff was not very interested in my repaying for his loss, but he was very much interested in me. Using my guilty conscience against me he asked me out to discuss the exhibition, and easily transferred conversations to other topics once that was exhausted. Before I even realized what was happening, I agreed to meet with him on some other pretence. And then I was roped into it again. And again. I did not even notice when we had begun dating, the transition was so fluid and almost without any input on my part.

He wasn’t a guy I've ever expected to be attracted to someone like me. With my average looks which were more suitable for blending in with the crowd rather than standing out, I did not fit to my ideal of successful lawyer’s girlfriend. Jeff was good looking, attractive and outspoken; next to him I looked like a lost grey mouse. He was also very decisive, and knew what he wanted. It took him a while to convince me **I** was what he wanted, but with his profession I was heavily outclassed from the onset. By the end of the year we were not only dating, but I also abandoned student accommodation in favour of moving in with him.

At first everything appeared perfect. I was flattered by Jeff’s attention and learned to care for him very much. Jeff was tolerant of my strange quirks and loner tendencies, liked my friends and did not force his opinions on me. Tim and Lisa were warily welcoming, although they warmed up to him with time. My parents positively adored him; there were days I believed they would exchange me for him without second thought. Such responsible and caring person! He very nearly walked on water or performed other miraculous feats in their eyes.

The only – small, at first – hurdle were my bouts of inspiration. I told Jeff about my dreams early on in our relationship, and he smiled indulgently reassuring me it wouldn’t become a problem. I think now he did not fully comprehend how large part of my life they constituted. While he had been waiting through my mad painting phases, he soon grew impatient with them. It was all the harder for him to bear once he realized I couldn’t control my dreams or how long they took at all. I was an observer. For as long as the journey lasted, I would flitter by the hero of the story watching his ups and downs until my gift decided to take me elsewhere.

To be more accurate, I could not control it naturally, with conscious decision. By lucky accident I discovered during my high school exams that sleeping drugs stopped me from having any night-time visions; but I could not take medication at all times. Nor was I willing to do so to appease Jeff’s anxiousness.

Truth to be told, I detest it. The artificial sleep, for some, is a place of nightmares – for me it means being cut off from my explorations. A fate which, if I had been caught in it infinitely, would have surely crippled me. It took me so long to accept this integral part of me. Whenever circumstances forced it upon me, I was always anxious to return. To see what I have missed of the adventures, during my absence. With the timeline being as funky and unpredictable as it is, the results differed. Sometimes the story did not progress at all; and then, at times I realized years have passed.

We had our first major row when I told him as much. Some part of me understood. Jeff was hurt by my flat-out declaration that my dreams have been just as important to me as he. Still, I did not back down; and for the very first time our disagreement went unresolved. After a couple of silent days, Jeff started avoiding the issue altogether; and I have followed his example. This uneasy compromise lasted for nearly two years of our relationship.

And then he was delegated abroad, to deal with a major case regarding oil rights somewhere in Africa. We have barely seen one another for the past six months, and this separation gave both of us a different perspective. I am nearly certain Jeff will want to be more decisive, finally settle the issue. His initial reaction told me as much.

He will force me to make a choice. I know I will have to fully consider my options, weight what is really important to me. Deep down, I am already aware of what my choice would be… However, I still hope to avoid making it. Stupidly naïve of me, I am aware. But then, who wouldn’t, in my position?

I sneak into our shared bedroom, and shyly curl on my half of the bed. Window shutters are closed, and light is turned off. Jeff breaths evenly, either sleeping or pretending to be asleep. I bite down on my lip guiltily. This is not how I imagined our reunion – not with me rubbing my preferences in his face. I close my eyes, pushing the unpleasant reality away from me, and welcome the familiar sensation of falling down as my senses are cut off, one after another.

June senses my downcast mood, and strives to entertain me. It looks cute, and he succeeds in making me smile. I appreciate his efforts, even though they can’t solve my dilemma with Jeff. By the end of the visit I decide to appease my boyfriend some; with the exams coming up, I should put a stop to my visits here, anyway. A student as lazy as me during the semester cannot afford such distraction in the final weeks. I always cram up the learning at the last possible moment, so with regret I inform June of my planned, prolonged absence.

To say he is dejected would be an understatement. He protests the necessity, and I delve into a convoluted explanation of schools, exams and in general, things out of my control. Since these terms are clearly foreign here, and apparently my spiritual existence ought to be carefree and without restraints I do not achieve much of anything. June is by no means convinced, and I see flashes of anger in his eyes once I state firmly that my departure is non-negotiable. Clearly, he is not used to people denying him.

In the last seconds as I am pulled away, I can see a spark of determination in his eyes. I feel somewhat apprehensive about this, but there’s no more time left as I wake up.

I spend Saturday morning putting final touches on my painting of June. I hate leaving my works unfinished. When Jeff slips in, wordlessly disapproving, I refuse to confront his – completely unreasonable, in my eyes – anger. We remain in this oppressive silence for the next hour, as I proceed to ignore him, and continue with light strokes of a brush on the canvas. Finally, I put away my tools, and taking a step back nod to myself with satisfaction. My boyfriend finally says, watching me clean paint off my hands with turpentine:

‘No human is that beautiful.’

‘Then it is fortunate that June is no human.’ I counter defensively, crossing my arms and glaring at him. First words spoken after hours of offended silence, and he just had to criticize me and my hobby. ‘Which you would have realized if you had looked more closely.’ Pointy ears are hard to miss.

I had not intended to start a fight, especially not on such stupid topic. It is leading nowhere. With a sigh I pick up my phone from the shelf and scroll messages. Lisa invites us to a pub; I sent her a text a few days ago about Jeff’s return. I hesitate, unwilling to introduce my friends to our relationship troubles, but finally decide to ask.

‘Would you like to go out tonight? Lisa suggested drinks in celebration for your return.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Jeff replies, and I fight off annoyed grimace. It is always like this with him – neither approval, nor rejection. I can never tell whether he really wants to go, or is merely humouring me and my closest relations. With another sigh, I grab a coat and purse while Jeff roams the flat in search of his car keys.

The drive is spent in ominously tense silence, and it is only once I spot Tim, waving to us enthusiastically, that my irritated frown disappears. I lean into his embrace eagerly, borrowing some of his strength. From the way he returns the hug he has realized something is off; however he is not so insensitive as to call me on that in the middle of a street. He ushers us inside to a crowded room, air thick from cigarette smoke. Lisa has already ordered for us, having arrived a while earlier. We push our way through the mass of bodies, and I bless my friends' oversight to reserve a table. Still, we are forced to shout to be heard at all.

‘So they finally released you, Jeff. Maybe you will be able to convince Joanne to hang out with us more often. We started wondering whether she had promised herself to some suspicious convent, swearing off any fun altogether.’ Lisa says in greeting, but her light tone tells me she isn’t really offended by my attitude. She has known me for ages, after all, and knows how reclusive I can get.

Jeff smiles tightly, but his eyes remain cold as he replies,

‘I doubt my presence or lack of it will matter at all.’

Lisa glances at me in surprise. She was obviously joking, and did not expect this kind of sharp reply. I blush, lowering my head in embarrassment and internally cursing Jeff for souring the mood right at the start of the evening. Here I thought we could loosen up and put this behind us…

Tim returns from bar carrying refills for himself and Lisa, and saves the day. The two of them carefully skirt over neutral topic, dragging out details of the case which kept him abroad from Jeff. I remain mostly silent, having already known them before. I think we are all glad when the whole thing is over; even though the experience wasn’t **completely** unpleasant.

We return home in similarly to how we left it, silent and irritated. Without single glance in Jeff’s direction, I reach to our med’s cabinet, and fish out sleeping pills, which I have been keeping at hand. Seeing my actions, he visibly brightens, and says,

‘I’m finally having you for myself.’

‘Excuse me?’ I bristle, and stop short of swallowing the drugs looking at him with incredulity. ‘You suspect me of unfaithfulness?’

‘Aren’t you? In a manner of speaking.’ Jeff crosses his arms, and leans against the kitchen door. I have to sit down, stunned so much I lose my balance.

‘Do elaborate. You are perfectly aware that I do not possess physical self while travelling in my dreams; so what did you mean?’ My tone is frostily curious, and Jeff flinches.

‘You are far more interested in life of strangers than ours. You are perfectly willing to sacrifice our time in favour of your imaginary travels; can you deny it?’

I open my mouth to do exactly that, and then close them wordlessly. Can I, really? I take a closer look at my boyfriend. His broad shoulders are hunched; and his expression, typically so haughty and confident, appears unusually defeated. Have I really given up on us, without even trying?

‘Joanne.’ Jeff calls out softly, and I snap out of my reverie, and look him in the eyes. ‘I know that I have been far more invested in this relationship than you, right from the start. But I wish you didn’t dismiss me so readily, whenever your inspiration strikes. I am not asking for much; just, please. Think about it, will you?’

I am astounded, hearing him pour his heart out with such desperate honesty. Has he always been so insecure about my affections? Yes, I have not been willing to give up my paintings and mental travels for him; but how did it end up giving him the impression I did not care? Was it my passivity, perhaps… or maybe it was the consequence of his initial approach when he nearly tricked me into dating?

I have been wrong about the cause of our disagreement all along. Not completely wrong, since Jeff would rather I stopped painting; but I was mistaken in my basic assumptions. I was so certain he had to be like all the others who rejected my peculiarity, I did not even give him the chance to explain himself.

He did not want me to change... but for me to reassure him. If only I knew…

I close the distance between us, and taking his hands into mine, say softly.

‘My dreams are an irreplaceable part of me… But so are you. I would not wish to lose either. I **do** love you, don’t doubt that.’ Jeff’s breath hitches, and he pulls me into his arms. I allow him the strong embrace, sneaking my hands behind his back and delicately running my fingers over his spine in a soothing motion. His tense muscles relax under my touch, and with a sigh he presses his mouth to my hair.

We end up curled on the bed, talking late into the night about work, university… and for the first time, I delve into what I saw in my dreams, and Jeff does not make me stop. I want to make him understand, why this is so important, so integral to me – and for the first time it seems like he is willing to try.   

The spring exam session is like a lightning on a sunny day, shocking and terrifying and over before I fully realize it is happening. I manage to get passing grades in all of the subjects, even though in some it was just barely. The time not spent in learning I devote to Jeff, and repairing the glaring holes we made in our mutual trust.

But, truth to be told, it is also a very taxing period for me, and the longest I’ve ever went without my travels. Some part of me is crying, restless and eager to go, see, explore. I feel the confines of my physical self acutely, and the restlessness begins to show in my actions. Carelessness and rush and impatience, as the walls of a self-imposed cage begin closing in. Like a claustrophobia. I long to return to my imaginary travels, and each hour after first couple of days feels like its dragging on for longer and longer.

Fortunately, by the time my resolve snaps and I get off the sleeping pills, my relationship with Jeff is relatively salvaged. At least to a point where Jeff does not protest, seeing me put the ominous box away.

I fall into darkness and reawaken moaning, an unpleasant jolt of energy running through me. At first, I am completely flabbergasted – this is the first time I’ve ever felt anything, being on the other side. It is very disconcerting, and the fact that it is **pain** that I’m experiencing worries me. However as soon as my eyes focus, I abandon this train of thought completely forgetting about the experience, looking around astounded. So many changes on the formerly beautiful glade! The forest surrounding it has been destroyed – by natural disaster, or a hand of man? The completely even patch suggests the latter. It had to be quite some time ago, however, since the undergrowth is completely restored, and new saplings begin gaining in height. Small spring which enlivened the place is also gone, and the formerly uneven ground has been flattened. The central point of my appearance is surrounded by six large menhirs, with intricate rune work carved into them. The runes are glowing in blue, and glancing down I notice the stony lay lines, creating a large pentagram of power. I am uncertain of its purpose, but there’s no doubt in my mind in regards to its creator.

I soon discover that I am unable to pass through secondary layer of the gigantic glyph. The stones shine more brightly in reaction, and the blue wall is erected in reaction to my attempt. With irritated sigh, I am forced to wait for the child’s arrival.

Which actually takes much longer than I expected, and when he finally appears I nearly do not recognize him. Gone is the cute child, replaced by a handsome youth growing into his manhood. By my estimation, he would be in early teens, but I am a terrible judge of the immortals’ ageing process. As my initial assumptions regarding his age proved.

 _‘Fean’Na!’_ He steps into the pentagram, dismantling the spell. In spite of my irritation after hours of waiting I smile slightly, happy to see him. _‘I was getting worried you weren’t coming back.’_

 _‘Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you.’_ I have a joyful bounce in my step as we walk in the direction of his workshop.

 _‘You made me wait for a long time.’_ June complains.

 _‘Surely it could not have been that long…?’_ My question is aimed to both dissipate the strange atmosphere, and fish for information. It is hard to judge the passage of time, here, and I have to consider whether it’s been linear at all. Seeing June looking that much older, I have my doubts…

But June ignores my words altogether, looking at me pleadingly.

 _‘Promise you won’t leave like that again?_ ’ There’s a strange undertone in his voice almost like a whine, and I send him a startled glance. But his face shows none of the heaviness his tone betrayed, and I dismiss my concern.

 _‘I am sorry June, but I have my own life to live, aside from visiting you.’_ I state firmly, shaking my head. A flash of… something crosses his eyes, and he murmurs to himself,

 _‘Aaah, see, I knew that would be the case. Asking is meaningless.’_ I take a step back, suddenly a bit afraid of the darkness in him. But then he raises his head and smiles at me brightly, and I am left only with vague uneasiness and inexplicable fear.

 _‘I am finally finished with the mirror. Come, I want you to see!’_ And the shadow lifts as if it had never been there, and I berate myself for overthinking it.

 _‘Of course!’_ I reply enthusiastically, tucking away my **surely** unreasonable fears.

We easily fall back into our routine, and before I realize it is time to return. After long practice, I am familiar with warning signs and a slight tug which comes before my fall into myself – and feeling the pull, I turn to June and say,

 _‘I’ve got to go. But I’ll be back, don’t you worry.’_ Fading, I spot a complicated expression on June’s features. A strange mix of regret, determination, anger and… something I could only describe as hunger.

Awake, I shudder, unable to put June’s face out of my mind. I’m still disturbed by his behaviour. I laugh at myself for this sudden fear of June – what could he possibly do to my incorporeal form? And why would he want to harm me? But it comes out weak, hollow and strained.

Looking in the mirror, widened eyes stare back at me. Feeling shivers running down my spine, I can’t avoid the truth.

For the first time in my life, I am afraid to return to my fantasy.  


	3. Entrapped...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requiem for a Dream - Clint Mansell and Kronos Quartet

Regardless of my sudden fear, the sad reality is I have no way of controlling my dreaming aside from sleeping pills. And these are not particularly reliable. I force myself to think more positively, seeing Jeff’s brows scrunched in worry. I smile somewhat convincingly, waving his worries away. His face clears, and by the end of the day I manage to convince even **myself** that I was overreacting. There’s no way my worries are in any way rooted in reality.

These are merely dreams, after all. Lifelike, inspirational, but… just dreams… Right?

Time passes swiftly: before I fully realize it my hotel job is finished, Jeff has taken me out to a restaurant for a meal, and my head begins drooping over economics homework. It is all in blur, smoky haze clouding my head and I have trouble recalling anything. With irritated sigh I push notebooks away. Sink or swim, Joanne - there’s no avoiding it for much longer.

For the first time in years I have trouble falling asleep. My muscles are tense, and my thoughts ripe with speculation. I might have pretended to be fine, but left with no one but myself, I own up to it - I am scared. Tossing around in our shared bed, I allow myself to regret that I am alone. Jeff sent me a message that something held him back at work. I know I can’t expect him home for a couple of hours; and I can’t afford missing on downtime.

Counting sheep is a lousy way of forcing sleep to come. I know it’s pretty much pointless when I lose my count for the third time somewhere in three thousands. It is all psychological on my part... And without much basis whatsoever. And for a moment, it is tempting to find the damn pills, and drug myself to sweet oblivion.

But I try it again, anyway; because I refuse to allow my fears to rule over me.

One lousy sheep jumps over fence.

Two brown-nosed future meatballs jump over the fence.

Three directionally challenged furry monstrosities jump over the fence…

I blink to the sudden brightness surrounding me, feeling both relieved and uneasy at the same time. It is good for my health I’ve managed to fall asleep. It is bad for my peace of mind that I found myself here again.

I shudder at the unpleasant sensation as the familiar glyphs react to my presence once again. I have to bite back a pained grunt. It is just as disturbing as it was the first time around; and I can’t decide whether it’s the actual pain that bothers me, or the fact that my floating, translucent self suddenly feels that much more physical.

This time, I need not wait for June’s appearance. He enters the glade mere minutes after my arrival, and the blue barrier falls apart under his touch.

There’s none of the scary darkness to be seen in his eyes when he greets me enthusiastically. If anything, June looks overjoyed about something, and seeing him like that lifts my suspicions. I exhale with relief, and my smile becomes more genuine.

 _‘The Eluvian network is well underway.’_ He mentions off-handedly, as we begin waking in the direction of his workshop. _‘It’s still quite limited, but I could show you my home, if you would like.’_

It’s the same project he has worked on a while ago - something akin to teleport system. June explained it to me, but I didn’t really get it until he dumbed it down to my level of understanding. He was fascinated by the way I explained teleporting I saw in my other dreams during one of our past conversations. But soon he came to conclusion that disintegration of cells only to be completely reintegrated in other place was impossible without killing the subject during the process, at least in Thedas; and he was forced to come up with an alternative.

And he did. Basically, he created an alternate reality, a shortcut of sorts between gateways etched in that plane of existence, with physical representation on this side. 

I've mentioned June is crazy smart, haven't I?

 _‘I would love to.’_ I smile encouragingly, happy to see him so high-spirited. I know he held a grudge over my disappearance; and I’m glad he seems to have gotten over it. At least there’s none of the bitterness which clouded our previous meeting. And I have been curious for the longest time of the palace he had mentioned to be his home. Lights in the distance do little justice to the gem in magical and architectural achievements he had been describing.

There’s no logical reason why we did not try this before. I have spent weeks on this side, but June was always reluctant to leave his workshop behind, and I obliged his wishes. It is exhilarating to finally see more of Thedas, and I am nearly as enthusiastic about it as June is.

We pass through the mirror - gateway - June keeps in his workshop after a quietly whispered passphrase. I look around curiously, and my guide blushes a bit in embarrassment.

_‘These are Crossroads. They’re still unfinished.’_

I can see where the name comes from. With countless paths and smaller trails winding up and down and sideways; held by forces defying gravity in a maze like entanglement. The place is otherwise bare, and kept in sombre coloristic in arrays of grey - very rustic, and very much like June. The boy cares little for ornamentation, valuing practicality.

I see a blank canvas of countless possibilities. With June’s abilities to control time and space in this alternate reality, it could be shaped into anything. I begin outlining my many ideas to the youth, who smiles indulgently while nodding to my varied suggestions.

It is all too soon when we cross another mirror, and I find myself in a chamber of elaborate palace. I look around in wonderment, taking in the high, heavily sculpted roof and the large windows with stained glass. Colours are muted and understated, and light shining through the artwork creates a delicate illumination on the white floor. Green veins in a white, marble-like stone emanate with light shimmer, whispering of power bound in every little piece here. The overall impression is that of sophisticated elegance, with no gaudy baubles disrupting the tranquil image.

June leads me through myriad of corridors not allowing me much time to take it all in. I am a bit annoyed by his inexplicable rush, and try to talk him into slowing down. But he completely disregards my suggestion; and since I do not want to get lost, I am forced to make haste and keep up with him.

Without pause, he opens a large doors, leading to a grand reception hall. Those gathered there look in his direction with frowns on their faces, but he disregards their disapproval, moving forward with purpose. I cower behind him, a bit overwhelmed by the sudden scrutiny when they move their gazes from him to me.

I always knew June was someone special, but seeing him in this setting, in this circumstances, only reaffirms my past assumptions. There’s a confidence in his gait, and a certain dignity only those used to such situations possess.

I do not know what to do with myself, unwilling to subject myself to curious gazes of the crowd. But once June realizes I am not by his side, he turns around and raises his eyebrow impatiently with such authority I can’t help but hurry along.

It must be the longest fifteen seconds of my life, as I float uneasily a step behind him until we reach the elevation. On the delicate throne chair sits a fair lady with uncanny resemblance to June, and I gulp down my sudden nervousness. She glances briefly at her son before regarding me with startling intensity.

I am unaware of the local court etiquette, and bow my head gracelessly to express my respect. Shuffling uneasily, I am spellbound by the oppressive silence as the - queen? ruler? - seizes me up. To alleviate my nerves I look around, catching June perform an elaborate bow which makes mine appear downright offensive in comparison. Not about to beat myself up over customs I am unaware of, I shift my eyes to a large black wolf, resting by her side.

If such monstrosity could even be called a wolf - it is more than thrice the size of the wolves I’m familiar with. Black fur glistens in the sunlight, and somehow, this wolf brims with power. I’ve grown used to recognizing these signs during my time spent with June, and I can say with certainty that the creature is highly magical being.

But that is not very unusual around here, as I found. Magic shines in the air, breathed in with every whiff of air entering lungs of the inhabitants; power to shape and create. It is awe-inspiring, but at the same time, a little scary.

My reverie is broken when June finally speaks up.

 _‘All-Mother, this is Fean’Na.’_ The great acoustics allow his voice to resound clearly through the entire chamber – he could have spoken right from the entrance, and be heard perfectly.

 _‘I see.’_ I have an eerie feeling she did not blink once while looking at me all this time. It is incredibly disturbing impression, and I have to stop my hands from shaking.

This whole situation is very nerve-wracking, and not what I expected at all. My initial bad premonition resurfaces, and I swallow a sudden lump in my throat. I wish I knew what was going on here.

 _‘What do you think, my friend?’_ June’s mother turns to the wolf, who slowly raises his head from his paws, staring at me with just as much of an intent as she had before.   

 _‘Interesting.’_ I bite back a whimper hearing him speak. In comparison with some stuff I’ve seen June do, I suppose talking wolf is not very high on the scale of improbability; but my tolerance has run dry for the night.

He jumps down from the podium in a one smooth move, and suddenly, he is just in front of me. I instinctively jerk back, shying away from him. I do not know what are their intentions, but I want to be gone from here. Now.

I pray for a sudden emergency on the other side; a loud crash, a siren in the distance, a goddamn fire… Anything to wake me up from this terrifyingly incomprehensible situation.

The wolf circles me like a predator stalking its prey, before saying,

 _‘June appears to have been right after all. It is definitely a soul attached to spirit-like phantom, although…’_ His gaze returns back to me, and I cower under his scrutiny, _‘I cannot fathom how it came about.’_

 _‘She is from a different realm’_ interjects June excitedly. I feel a bead of cold sweat running down my back, which is a ludicrous delusion of my nerves in my incorporeal form. But this confirmation of my fears is the last thing I wanted to hear.

Ever since I felt the first prick of pain, I evaded considering that possibility. I pushed the analysis of what had happened to the back of my mind, and get on with my life, pretending to not know - but some part of me did. It was the same part which told me it was a bad idea to return here; the same part which instinctively reached for sleeping pills couple of hours ago, on the other side of reality. The same part which screams danger to me right at this very moment as I keep very still, desperately trying to find a way out.

Why did June bring me here? I am certain I won’t like the answer, and I attempt to pinch myself in a futile attempt to wake up. Of course, my fingers go right through my white, imprecise foam of arm; and I force down frustrated scream.

I should have known it would not work. I should have, but I kept a sliver of hope.  

Dazed by this sudden revelation, I do not realize the conversation has progressed forward.

 _‘Will it work?’_ Questions the ruler from her white throne. Will **what** work? I ask silently, suddenly angry with myself for the moment of weakness which made me inattentive.

My throat feels parched, and I look in silent plea at the wolf. Whatever they are planning, he can prevent it from happening with a single word.

Alas, he either does not see, or disregards my appeal to his compassion.

 _‘I do not see any reason why it would not, my lady Mythal. It is a singularly unique case, of course, so there are no guarantees, but…’_ The wolf shrugs nonchalantly in almost human-like manner, leisurely returning to his resting place. I glare at him, angry at dismissive way with which he has treated the situation.

Mythal - now that I have a name for the terrifyingly beautiful face of the enthroned woman - glances at me again, before regarding her offspring.

 _‘Are you quite certain of this, June?’_ She sounds dubious, and slightly disapproving, which lifts my spirits. But I’m soon crushed again, because June’s eyes shine with unrelenting conviction.

 _‘Yes, mother.’_ There’s a disturbing glint in his eyes as he looks at me with dog-like, fascinated devotion. Closing the distance between us, he leans in and whispers, _‘I have a gift for you, my Fean’Na. A gift unlike anything you’ve ever received.’_

It shakes me more than anything that happened today. I search his amber eyes for answers, and feel dread creeping up my spine - but some part of me knows it is much too late for anything.

 _‘Very well.’_ Mythal’s words have a ring of finality to them, and a sudden paralysis grips my incorporeal limbs. A rustle of robes and movement of many people preludes… whatever this is, but I can’t move an inch, even my eyes glued immoveable in my sockets. I hear chanting, and someone draws something on the floor surrounding me - I can hear the telling screech of the coal on glassy surface. But even the little awareness I have leaves me, when my senses get overpowered by a terrible pain gripping at every part of my undefined self. I can feel being slowly ripped away from my current form. Peeling away, layer after layer, causes a heartstopping pain. Had I any control over my body, I would have howled like an animal; but the paralysis remains as complete as it ever was. Finally, blissfully, I lose consciousness, oblivious to my surroundings.

They say curiosity killed the cat. In my case it would be more appropriate to say naivety and good intentions led me on a road straight down, to hell. I plummeted like a rock thrown into a bottomless well, desperately gasping for air while I was pulled deeper and deeper. And there was no air to be had.

With return of my consciousness comes rage. Rage at the situation, which dragged me into a trap I can’t escape. Rage at June, for being unreasonably possessive instead of leaving me be. Rage at his mother - devils-take-her goddess Mythal - for indulging her child’s whim. Rage at the wolf, for confirming that this thing was at all possible, because I doubt June would have risked losing me forever without wolf’s reassurances of ritual’s probable success. Rage at myself, for I had my goddamn suspicions, and I disregarded them. My instinct was screaming; flashing warning signs at every step. Yes, getting on the pill for indefinite amount of time would have killed my liver at some point, but it would have been preferable to what I am facing now.

Once my initial anger simmers down, I decide to try negotiating my release. Surely, they are all highly intelligent beings, and I could reason with them.

On wobbly legs, I learn to navigate the many pathways of this forsaken place - to think I considered it breathtakingly beautiful, once - attempting to reach out blindly to anyone in June’s large family who would listen. Which turns out to be a no mean feat, because they are all apparently incredibly important, and have no time to waste on a nobody like myself. My handlers - people assigned to me by June, or maybe his mother - steer me away from the places where I could meet them, and I resign myself to waiting until I am in better shape.

My body is frustratingly uncooperative, even though Elves are supposed to be an epitome of grace. At least, in books they are. And truth to be told, those surrounding me are as well.

Well, I am anything but. For a long time. My balance feels off, years of having much different proportions on the other side paying their toll. I fall again and again, losing my footing whenever I move too quickly or attempt a rapid gesture. It all feels very awkward, and I can’t shake off the irritation.

But that is not the only problem in these first weeks of adjustment. Being an elf means improved sight and hearing, and while the first one is not much of a problem, the second requires major adjustments. Sounds become quite distracting, I find myself waking to the slightest rustle, lightest step of servants in my rooms. Even though they are very light-footed; my own movement is makes much more ruckus in comparison. And the whispers, my god, whispers. I am a favourite topic of speculations and rumours running rampant in the palace; and I am very aware of it. I dislike both the attention, stares following me constantly, and the fact I can hear every word spoken.

My prevalent headaches and random bruising make me very snappy, and I direct my frustration on the poor, blameless servants. They waver under my contemptuous gaze, promising me it will all settle down in time. All spirits who are granted or achieve on their own the corporeal existence face similar difficulties, they say.

Needless to say, it does not improve my disposition towards them. Nor my treatment of them. I am annoyed both by the fact that I am compared to a spirit - God have mercy on me, I am not from Thedas! - or that I have to simply bear the consequences of unwelcome transition for a while longer.

Finally, things are improving. I learn to tune out random conversations as I pass through corridors, and sounds formerly assaulting me fade into the background. My headaches stop, and I am finally able to sleep through the night undisturbed. My coordination also improves a lot, with unexpected consequences.   

Somehow, by a trick of fate I’m fleeter than most elves. I guess maybe because I am used to the gravity of the Earth grounding me, and here, it has a lesser hold on my body.

Regardless of the reason, I manage to outrun my handlers, and finally, able to meet with the reason for my suffering. I burst into the audience chamber, where a golden-haired goddess raises her head and magnanimously allows me to say my piece.

Weeks, months pass, and I plead to no avail. I promise to visit regularly, if only she would allow me back to my world. I beg. Mythal just laughs.

 _‘What guarantee is there to ensure you would keep your word?’_ She asks me, and while I swear to her the purity of my intent, internally, I’m filled with despair. For the goddess is right, there’s none, and I would surely say anything for them to let me go.  

_‘You are June’s favourite. He had asked for you as his reward after the creation of Eluvians, a feat he attributes to the inspiration you provided him with – how could I refuse? It’s the end of the road, young Realm Traveller.’_

A semblance of pity flickers in her eyes, gone as fast as it appeared, and I clench my teeth. But I do not give up, and come back, again and again, stubbornly appealing to her husband, and then her children, for mercy. But Elgar’Nan could not be bothered to care, and June’s siblings do not want to cross their parents. Slowly, dejected resignation erodes my motivation.

Throughout all this, June never stops visiting me. At first, I am so angry with him that I refuse to speak at all - which does not deter him one bit. He comes to my side uninvited, brags about his accomplishments, or just talks at me – not with me, because I never reply, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge him. But he is just as stubborn, and glows with happiness in my presence, stealing light touches, staring at my face with disturbing fascination, playing with my hair. Treating me like a pet, a new toy, which he can't seem to get enough of.

That’s what I am – a plaything for a young god, a prize for his achievement. An elaborate doll which, for his entertainment, can think and speak on its own. I seethe at the objectification, at depreciating my person to such extent.

But once it becomes clear I cannot convince Mythal to let me go, I turn to the child, hoping to sway him.

_‘I’m not letting you go anywhere.’_

Distressingly, he turns out to be even more driven to keep me around than his mother - which really is not much of a surprise, considering it was his idea in the first place. I make one last effort.

 _‘June, I promise I will return. I already did it once; why can’t you believe me?’_ I do my best to project sincerity into my voice.

Flaxen hair fall into his eyes, as he shakes his head with patiently indulgent smile. I have a sudden urge to claw this condescension off his face; and it is completely unlike me to be so aggressive.

_‘How can you promise me something you yourself are uncertain of?’_

_‘Fean’Na.’_ June says my assumed name with honeyed affection, and I flinch in reaction at the delicate caress of my cheek. But I remain frozen in spot, hanging on his words while he pets me tenderly. _‘You told me yourself - people in your world die. How could I let you return to such uncertain fate? I promise, you will be in want of nothing here.’_

I drown in despair, as my last desperate resort is crushed without mercy. My tried patience with him snaps, and I turn my face away from his hand, growling angrily.

_‘You can’t give me what I want. I need my reality back! My family, work, friends.’_

_‘I’m sorry, but that’s just not happening.’_ In spite of my harsh rejection, June remains calm and collected. He stands up, and walking out, calls in my direction, _‘I will wait until your mood improves.'_

As the doors close behind him, I finally allow myself to break down. Tears of frustration and helplessness fall down my cheeks, as I cry out against the unfairness of it all. Curling into myself, I weep and weep until my eyes run dry, and I fall in exhausted sleep.

The situation’s hopelessness gnaws at me, turning into apathy. I lose my vitality which pushed me to roam the corridors in search of solution. My appetite wanes down to nothing, and not much later it becomes too much of an effort to leave my rooms at all. It is hard to say whether this is my last ditch effort to gain June’s sympathy, or whether depression which I’ve been fighting since arrival had finally broken me. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between, but truthfully I do not have enough strength to think about it seriously.

I miss my reality something terrible. Lacking the small and large things I loved from my… my former life, I suppose would be accurate to say; although the way in which those words ring of defeat makes me all the more sad. Coffee in the mornings before work, and the silly cartoons I watched while eating ice cream. Computers, and the very convenient internet, which is so much like magic. The cat that wanders the neighbourhood, letting me pet him and feed him, mine but never quite mine.

My paints – June told them to provide me with materials, but the colours fall flat of what is provided by the modern technology. And painting was an expression of my soul, when I wanted to share it with others. Here I do not want to show it at all, guarding my stolen light against their thieving ways.

And I miss people. My boss who sends me impatient glares whenever a new complaint comes up, but worries about my studies and treats me more leniently whenever exams are coming up. My co-workers, who offer help and insight on the things I struggle with, and laughingly request coffee in return, because ‘No one makes it quite as well as you do, Joanne.’ My friends, Lydia and Tim, who had been there with me when I needed them most - and when I did not. They stuck with me through thick and thin, and the thought of never seeing them again makes my heart clench painfully. My parents, who supported me throughout college, reluctantly allowing me to pursue my hobby. My little brother Mic, who resembles June, but at the same time differs from him so much I could cry.

My dear Jeff with whom I had finally found common language, buried the hatchet we needlessly swung at one another. Now I won’t get to tell him how right he was, fearing the dreams would one day steal me away.

Hysterical laughter bubbles in me, once I realize it - that Jeff was unknowingly spot on. Spirited away was a very nice movie to watch; but such things do not, should not happen in real life. Welcome to the nightmare of mine.

June observes the downward spiral of my depression with a worried frown. He attempts to argue me around, pointing out sensibly.

_‘Fean’Na, was your original word really that much of a wonder? You told me yourself, it was not. Stop wasting away meaninglessly; it will achieve nothing but worsen your situation.’_

Technically, I can’t deny the specks of truth in his words; and I hate him all the more for logically ridiculing my stubborn denial. If I were to be fair, it’s not. I liked - no, loved - Thedas ever since I saw it. Back home, the air is polluted and life is in constant rush. Taking care of basic necessities, balancing studies and work and socialising can be exhausting.

Here it is so much less straining. As June’s favourite, I have people attending my every whim, and a little god who would give me everything in his power had I asked him. The new body, once I’m used to its peculiarities, has a much more pleasing package than my original, plain face - if I ever cared about it.

Had I been **asked** to come, granted a new body and worriless reality, I don’t know whether I would have rejected it so summarily, so completely. Not that I would have ever agreed, since none of the comforts matter to me one whit, but… But I’m bound here regardless of my choice or feelings on the matter, with my own pretty carcass imprisoning me here.

So I straighten myself defiantly - or at least, attempt to, since my weakened by starvation muscles barely react - and turn my head away, refusing to reply to him.

At the very least, this is my choice. The only one left for me.


	4. Fighting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breathe - Two Steps From Hell

My rebellion proves futile, when even the choice of wasting away on my terms is taken from me. June orders my handlers to feed me by force, if necessary. When my body rejects nutrition, and I vomit everything they had fed me he invents a glyph on spot, proving once again his ingenuity. It sustains me with magic; with its mechanics eerily reminiscent of hospital drips. An unwanted lifeline, which keeps my head just above the water.

By that time I’m already indifferent to my fate. The constant anger is exhausting; and I have little energy to spare. Suspended between consciousness and lack of it, I observe the passing days without much input on my part. I know June is frustrated with me and my doll-like self; and had I considered it, I would have felt triumphant. But I do not, already beyond caring.

And then the wolf’s visits begin. He carefully chooses his timing to appear in June’s absence, and at first, merely watches me with curiosity. My glossy eyes skim over his form, and then disinterestedly turn to look through the mirror at the ever-changing skies outside.

But then, the wolf starts prodding me for answers.

_ ‘What are you hoping to achieve by this… defiance?’ _

Initially I intend to ignore him, just like I have been ignoring everything else. Yet something in me calls against that, some instinct in me stirring my buried emotions. I examine this unexpected reaction, and finally decide that at the very least, his presence is preferable to June’s. He does not feel like an enemy - or selfish brat bent on tearing my life apart for his own convenience. 

I do not feel criticized or threatened in any way. There’s no judgement in his voice, just plain curiosity. He wants to understand. I do not begrudge him that; I am aware that from outsider’s point of view my actions are unreasonable. Also, it is a pleasant change to have someone actually ask my opinion; thus far I have been merely told that I’m in the wrong. That my thoughts, feelings and desires are wrong; that I should be glad for the honour granted me. 

These words make me sick; and whenever a servant or assigned handler comes to chastise me - or June, or even his mother, since Mythal has condescended to visiting me on occasion - I curl even deeper into myself. Refusing them even the slightest acknowledgment. Who are they to dictate my perception? Is the control they exert over my body not enough? They wish to take over my very soul; shape it to their liking. And I refuse to be changed.

That’s why wolf’s unassuming presence is a relief. And I guess that’s why, ultimately, I respond to his question.

_ ‘Nothing really.’  _ My voice cracks a little, and I wonder how long it has been since the last time I spoke. Certainly days, weeks even. Maybe months? I’ve lost count long time ago. Reaching to a jug of water on the side table, I swallow a bit of cool liquid, easing the pressure on my parched throat. However once I attempt to put it away, my strength gives out and the container slips through my fingers, spilling the remainder of water all over my bed. Biting my lip in concentration, I reach with my shaking hand and put it away, and then fall back on the pillow. Disregarding wet sheets, I close my eyes, heaving from the effort.

I am in a really sorry state.

The wolf looks at me wordlessly with a tilted head, before whipping his tail in acknowledgment and leaving. I do not mind his departure, already falling asleep.

June has to reestablish the glyphs keeping me alive regularly, feed them anew with power. I still refuse to eat, and I’ve long stopped feeling hungry. The Golden Child of Arlathan refuses to give up on me and continues talking at me, with many arguments and pleas to return to how I used to be. I do not even open my eyes; often sleeping through his tirades. Once he realizes I’m not listening, he huffs in annoyance and goes away. He comes back; always comes back with new apologies and pleas. But never once does he mention allowing me to return home.

I actually sleep through most of the days. Remaining awake is too much of an effort and there’s no point to it anyway. My awareness resurfaces only for the infrequent and irregular visits of the wolf. A familiar tinge of his aura prods me awake; and when my eyes open it is always to a lithe and well-defined body of a huge predator; watching me with interest.

I don’t know what makes him special. It’s not like I’ve forgotten his role in putting me at my precarious position; but it’s really hard to keep blaming him for it. He merely responded to Mythal’s query to the best of his knowledge. The wolf was unaware of my unwillingness to go through with the ritual; and one day, he softly apologizes for his unwitting assistance in my imprisonment.

_ ‘Most spirits would be glad to be in your position. I did not once consider your opinion could differ.’ _

The wolf sounds so sincere in these words, I forgive him in instance. To express it, I reach to his humongous form by my bedside and run my hand over his thick fur in a weak attempt to pet him. He positively gapes, shocked by my action. He looks so much like a gigantic dog with his tongue sticking out and widened, flabbergasted eyes I huff in amusement. It is raspy and soon turns into cough as my insides scream for liquid; but it is a laugh nonetheless. He rolls his eyes at my reaction, but there’s a mischievous glint in them, and I pause, shocked. How long has it been since I laughed? 

That day marks a change in our relationship. He begins shadowing me, and our conversations gain in depth; showing underlying change of his perception of me – a person, instead of mere curiosity.

The wolf becomes my near constant companion, no longer caring whether the others know. And they do. I might be incredibly weak, but it does not make me deaf; and I can hear servants talking. They are so used to my silence they forget to keep their tongues in check in my presence. I ask him whether Mythal would mind his absence, and he shrugs neutrally, replying that he is not her subject to be ordered around. They are, apparently, friends.

I find it hard to believe the bitch is capable of having ‘friends’ of all things, but I keep my doubts to myself.

June is displeased by my newfound camaraderie with the wolf. He is jealous; and eyeing wolf’s body innocently sprawled next to the fireplace, searches for reason to force him out. But there’s none to be had, and for all his envy, June is begrudgingly gla that at least  **someone** is reaching me. Even if it’s not him. I think June hopes that the wolf will succeed where he had failed, even though admitting as much chafes him. The ironic part is that he is right – to a point. The wolf does make me livelier, but if June knew the reason for it, he would flip.

It begins innocuously enough, with a simple question.

_ ‘You are aware June will never let you go.’ _

_ ‘Yes, I know.’  _ I admit with slight grimace, lifting my head to look at him.  _ ‘At first I was hoping for some leverage, but now it no longer matters. I just refuse to give him what he wants.’ _

_ ‘And that’s it? You are just… giving up?’  _ He sounds incredulous, and my rage suddenly resurfaces.

_ ‘What do you expect of me?!’  _ I snarl with vehemence, and he takes an instinctive step back. It is downright ludicrous, since in my current state I’m weaker than a newborn child; and I could never do any real harm to him in any case. But such is the force of my fury, which was merely buried under layers of apathy, never truly gone.  _ ‘I’m a powerless stranger in your world, forced into a doll-like body which does not belong to me, strung along like a god-forsaken puppet however the local supreme beings desire! I couldn’t even die the way I wanted – I repeat, what do you expect of me?!’ _

_ ‘Actually, this body belongs to you.’  _ The wolf notes musingly, and I feel a flicker of curiosity at that.  _ ‘Or, to be more precise, this is what your body would have been like had you been born here. The soul transfer would not have taken root, otherwise. It is yours, and yours only.’ _

_ ‘Whatever.’  _ I dismiss the issue, not caring much one way or another. Although there’s a tinge of relief I hadn’t stolen anyone’s vessel with my untimely arrival. I would have hated for June’s selfishness to have cost someone beside me their place in the world.

_ ‘It’s not like dying would have let you return back to your reality, even if you did.’  _ He attempts to calm my anger, but his words only fuel it further.

_ ‘At the very least I wouldn’t be bound to June’s whims any longer.’ _

He falls silent after that, eyeing me warily. I sigh tiredly, regretful for my outburst – I no longer lay any blame on his shoulders; and he did not deserve my wrath for his inquisitiveness. I motion for him to join me, with quiet apology in my eyes.

_ ‘Fen.’  _ I say pleadingly, the word ‘wolf’ spoken the way June taught me was a sign of respect – heavily accenting the first letter, and letting the rest of them roll of my tongue softly. I immediately grow to dislike the distance between us, used to his calming presence at my side. His familiar aura of reliable strength, and his gentle ways... So different to the constantly demanding June. I do not want to upset the balance between us due to my stupid loss of control over my emotions.

The black wolf snorts, and without further ado jumps up at my gigantic bed which creaks under his weight, laying down beside me. I freeze in place, astounded by his action, and then slowly yet deliberately fit myself into his body. When he doesn’t move away, I hug him more boldly, my misplaced anger evaporating as if it hadn't been there in the first place.

For the first time I am somewhat appreciative towards the overabundance of luxury in my chambers. Had my rooms been bare and austerely equipped like the regular quarters in the palace, there wouldn’t have been enough space for us to share in the bed. Or enough fluffy covers to keep both of us comfortable.

_ ‘Are you aware of the name I go by?’  _ I hear a low rumble of his deep voice, coloured with amusement, right above my ears. I shake my head in denial, breathing in the smell of forest and wildness from his fur.  _ ‘Fen’Harel.’ _

_ ‘Dread Wolf?’  _ I ask, not hiding my surprise and looking up at him.  _ ‘How did you earn such reputation, pray tell?’ _

_ ‘My gifts tend to be double-edged.’  _ He bares his teeth and I get a distinct impression he is smirking. Well, as much as a wolf can smirk.  _ ‘I’m not like Mythal, spreading my favor without bounds.’ _

I do not fully understand what he is speaking of, but nod anyway. I suppose if I will find out what he meant; since apparently I am not leaving this accursed place. The warmth emanating his body lulls me, and I barely hear his next question. 

_ ‘Do you want it?’ _

_ ‘Do I want what?’  _ I mumble blearily. Even half asleep my instincts prevent me from commiting to anything. I have paid for my carelessness once; I’m not about to repeat my mistakes. 

_ ‘A gift.’  _

His words wake me from my reverie, and I move away a bit, blinking and trying to comprehend this sudden shift in conversation. Fen’Harel stares at me without blinking, mischief in his gaze. I tilt my head, but remain silent, aware that I do not know enough about his offer to make an informed decision. I can see a flash of respect crossing his stormy eyes, as he elaborates.  _ ‘A gift of knowledge. How you can return home.’ _

Hope blossoms in my heart, but I am also afraid of another disappointment. Turning away from his monstrous head, I look out through the blue-tinted window, realizing calmly,

_ ‘There’s a catch.’ _

_ ‘There’s always a catch.’  _ He laughs at me, and I redden a bit. He already told me there would be, after all. 

_ ‘So? What is it?’  _ I cross my arms, clenching my fingers tightly around them in a nervous fit. I really want it to be true. I so desperately need it to be true.

The wolf turns serious, speaking in low voice with his ears pointing towards the doors to ensure no one can sneak up on us unawares. 

_ ‘The ritual which granted you this body is usually irreversible. Once a spirit is granted, or achieves on its own a stable, physical representation, they cannot return to their previous form… But your case is by no means normal.’ _

_ ‘If you say so.’  _ I still don’t see where he is going with this.

_ ‘Mythal was forced to bind your unique ability in order to stop you from leaving. Therein lies ritual’s weakness. Unravel it, and your soul should be able to find its way back whence you came from.’ _

_ ‘Should be?’  _ I repeat dubiously. He shrugs in an almost human-like way, and replies with a hint of sarcasm.

_ ‘We do not get enough Realm Travellers around to perform experiments of this kind regularly, but I am reasonably certain such is the case.’ _

_ ‘Still not seeing the catch…’  _ I note with a whimsical trill. My breathing is a bit faster in response to my growing excitement. What he has been talking about doesn’t seem all that improbable… I do not think he is deceiving me.

_ ‘Oh, there is. You just missed it.’  _ He chuckles with slight condescension. I glare irritably, not appreciating the way he is making fun of me. Merriment does not leave his gaze, but he graciously explains what he had meant.  _ ‘You will have to be the one to do it, Fean’Na. No one can do it for you; the nature of the spell forbids interference from anyone aside from the caster and object.’ _

_ ‘Wait, you mean I have to use magic? But that’s impossible; for I am no mage!’  _ I panic, seeing this insurmountable obstacle. 

_ ‘Maybe in your previous world you weren’t. I couldn’t say.’  _ He shrugs neutrally. _ ‘But all of the Elvhen have the ability to channel and direct Fade; and your… rebirth, so to speak, made you into one.’  _ His easy-going mood vanishes, and his gaze becomes weighty.  _ ‘Do not mistake me, there’s nothing easy about the path ahead of you. It will take you years to understand the intricacies of mana manipulation; and achieving expertise necessary to affect Mythal’s powerful spellcasting, well… Decades, at least.’ _

Decades. It sounds ominous, although faced with direct challenge, determination surges within me to pull through. I lose myself to thoughts, considering his words, and flinch slightly when his wet nose pushes into my hand, catching my attention.

_ ‘But you won’t be getting anywhere, stuck immobile in a sickbed.’  _ He jumps off and walks to the exit, pausing just short of the door and turning his head to look at me.

_ ‘Do try not to prematurely betray your intentions, will you?’  _ The last advice is given with an amused nonchalance, but I know to treat it completely seriously.  _ ‘Who knows, maybe by the time you are ready to break the enchantment, you won’t want to leave anymore. Or maybe there will be nothing left for you to return to.’ _

It is a sombre reminder, but I am grateful for it. I should never forget what’s at stake. I bite my lip worryingly – I have been here for a while already. A couple of months, maybe six – certainly much longer than I have ever spent with June before. What is happening to my body on the other side? And how much time has passed there? With the non-linear timelines, I can’t really judge it with any measure of reliability. I may be one of the immortals  **here,** largely unaffected by the changing seasons, days going by... but that is certainly not the case back at home. 

I know one thing.

I’ve wasted enough time, wallowing in self-pity. In the end, no one can save me but myself. 

However, regardless of my most sincere intentions, recuperation process saps away my strength almost completely. I have to get back on normal eating schedule and rebuild my muscles before my studies can progress anywhere.

It is hard. The first, baby steps are snail slow, almost like relearning to walk. The long apathy has impacted my body weight and strength; and in spite of my enthusiasm, some things cannot be rushed. I cry tears of frustration whenever my legs give out under me; or when my hands shake uncontrollably, tired by the simplest actions. But I refuse to give up, and slowly but surely get back in shape.

When I am not practicing my muscles, I learn the written word. Understandably, my progress with Elvhen thus far was limited to the spoken language; but I know I will need a much more comprehensive awareness of it to proceed with my plan. It is nearly as frustrating as learning to walk again. Elvhen letters are written with painstaking precision and each one is almost like a work of art. Their books are full of complicated allegories which oftentimes sound as if they are there simply to sound pretty; but lacking any point whatsoever. Convoluted phrases which go round in circles for so long one loses sight of their beginning… Needless to say, it is a chore. But I persevere, finally seeing a goal to be pursued.

June is overjoyed by my change of attitude, and ensures I have everything I need to get better. Servants snap into attention at my smallest gesture, ready to assist me in any way; truthfully, soon their overbearing presence gets old. I hate the way they fawn over me, since it is not me they really care about, but June. They do everything to get his attention, and it chafes me to be their leg up the local food chain. Nonetheless, it would do me no good to antagonize them, so I grit my teeth and bear with their needless flattery and honeyed reassurances. 

Fortunately, the wolf is with me all the way through the arduous process. I grow so used to his intelligence, far exceeding that of a normal person, there are days when I am astounded when he makes a particularly canine gesture like licking his paw or wagging his tail. I just do not treat him like merely as an animal anymore; he has grown on me and became a valued friend.

The wolf is also the only one I can trust with my real motivations. He could care less about crossing June or even Mythal; one day he tells me he cannot wait for his trick to play out successfully. I smack him on the head in good-natured warning; but I don’t mind he has his own agenda in helping me. On the contrary, I would have been uneasy if he didn’t.

Once I’m well enough, he begins to show me the basics about magic around here. The variety of it, things it can affect, is simply astonishing, and at first, I feel a little overwhelmed. They call it Fade, the breath of life, and I soon learn to detect the differences in the density of it in specific places. It permeates everything, but the larger availability eases the manipulation of power – some of which is inherent to every Elvhen, and some of which is borrowed from the surroundings. 

Fen is a brilliant teacher and a talented mage. Mana swirls into shapes and flows in even streams under his masterful direction and I can see how everything has meaning; and how nothing occurs without reason. Power. Will. Intention. And knowledge how to make things happen; how more complicated shapes allow to concentrate more mana and achieve greater effect.

I spend days upon days studying glyphs, which are the most basic of manipulations. They have a distinct advantage over other spells in that they can be changed midway without falling into disarray; and as I get better with lines and even circles, my glyphs gain in meaning. When I manage to create my first floating glyph, allowing me; or any object placed in the center to hover in the air, I jump and scream out my happiness. Finally, a visible sign of my progress!

But I can’t spend all of my time learning magic, or others will begin questioning my motives. I do not want to draw anyone’s attention. The wolf also takes care to give me my lessons in secluded locations, reinforcing my conviction of keeping secrecy. So, in the meantime, I spend some time with June. I pretend to forgive him, slowly warming up to his visits - like the best actress playing out a role of her lifetime. I learn to lie without flinching. I grasp how to fake honesty and content, mixing truths with falsehoods so they make entangled mess, and I sometimes lose track where one ends and another begins. June is so easily manipulated, and so naively overjoyed there are days when I feel guilty for my deceptions – but then I remember it was his egoism that got me in this situation and my conscience clams up. For a while.

However, associating with June is not as straightforward as it would seem for all him being a child. He moved his workshop to palace’s dungeon, and rarely ever leaves the capital, nowadays. That means there are many people who want things from him. And since he is actually quite feared by the populace, they go to the next best thing – namely myself. As result I’m constantly hounded by favor seekers and petitioners; which would get incredibly annoying if not for the fact I can use it to my advantage. Without remorse I demand bribes for getting their pleas to June; and if they throw in extra something, I even ensure June actually does what they ask for.

It’s not money I’m after; it is pretty much useless for me. Anything that money can buy I am served on a silver platter with a single word; but there are things I don’t want others knowing I get. So I mainly ask for books; instructive manuals; mediums for spellcasting – literally anything that assists me in my learning process. I consider it a suitable payment for time wasted on pushing their cases forward.

Getting June to fulfil their requests is an easy thing. It takes some prodding; some pouting; some whining. And a smile as a reward; or a light peck on his cheek, which makes them rosy red and his ember eyes begin glittering. It makes me a bit self-conscious, and forces to acknowledge the boy genuinely cares for me. It is there in his puppy look; eagerness to please; readiness to abandon anything at my single word. In his elation and walking on cloud nine in my presence. 

Mythal sends me threatening glares whenever I influence him too obviously; but I am not really worried. She can’t touch me without antagonizing June. Some vicious part in me recognizes she must be regretting now her decision to force me to remain here.

I still dislike June for forcing me to remain by his side. For his selfishness. But some part of me is flattered by his devotion; some part of me revels in being treated like a treasure he can’t live without. I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t be?

It also makes me feel bad. I am forced to admit it is not likely June fully understands what he has really cost me. How could he? In the end, he is merely a child. 

I am not a monster; or not too much of one. I simply want to get back home. But trampling over a somewhat innocent kid to get my way makes me realize I am not much better than June. I mean, he was selfish in getting me to remain in Thedas; and now I am selfishly using his feelings to – hopefully sometime soon – get away. A part of me quivers at this sacrilege; I think that if anyone hurt Mic the way I’m about to hurt June, I would rip their hearts out. 

But remembering my brother also helps me remember that I have to go back. And not merely for myself; I am sure my family and friends miss me as much as I miss them. And Jeff. My motivation, weakened by pangs of my conscience, reestablishes itself; and I am ready to face another day in this purgatory.

The complications that come with June do not end with a steady stream of petitioners. There’s also court, which is a deadly trap for the unwary. People who think they matter more than they really do; and among them the Evanuris, strutting around like peacocks and stringing everybody along to fit their schemes. June’s family.

I’m lucky to escape their notice most of the time; since June is still young and his mother does not feel it necessary to involve him much in anything. By extension, I’m also spared. My emotions regarding the issue are complicated – on one hand, it is a relief. One issue less to eat up my time I could use to learn. On the other it is another expression of how I am worth anything merely by the worth assigned to June.  

I hate it. I hate how the Evanuris are so selfishly engrossed in themselves they do not see an issue with walking over others to get what they want. If it had been to the general benefit of the Elvhen, I suppose I could have swallowed that bitter pill – although words ‘general good’ make me want to barf. It is a very convenient excuse for things gone wrong, if you ask me. I believe there must be a better solution, and if there isn’t, well – it just means you are not searching hard enough. 

Take the situation with me, for instance – and yes, I am aware I’m not exactly an example of objective analyst here, but let’s omit this tiny issue for now. Take the situation with me. There must have been a less inconvenient way of dealing with June’s obsession than what came about. But Mythal just took the easy way out, forcing her opinion down on me; and I know there will come a day when she deeply regrets it. I hope I will be around to see it; although the likelihood of it happening in my absence – if I ever get out – is much higher.

It is one of the few points of contention where I and Fen strongly disagree.

_ ‘You have to understand her a bit. In the end, she is a mother, and would do anything to grant her child happiness.’ _

_ ‘At the cost of another’s? _ ’ I question disdainfully. He shrugs neutrally.

_ ‘Wouldn’t you?’ _ he asks back, and I fall silent. In the end, it doesn’t matter what I would have done in her place – I’m not, nor will I ever be. 

_ ‘I pray that if I am ever a mother, I will be wise enough not to fuel his or hers obsessions without reason.’  _ I say finally, attempting to detach myself from the issue. Obviously, it doesn’t come easily, since I am deeply invested in the matter; but I try.  _ ‘I hope I will be wise enough to know when to deny them their wishes; teach them humility and awareness that sometimes, things just won’t go their way.’ _

_ ‘Then you are wiser than most.’  _ The wolf acknowledges with a flick of his ear.  _ ‘But the point is, Mythal doesn’t have to. The world literally revolves around their wishes and desires – why would she deny June something she doesn’t need to? Moreover, in her understanding, she is actually doing you a favor; and June thinks likewise. He has told her of your world, and of your life; and they both believe that eventually, you will reconcile yourself to your fate, and be grateful for their interference.’ _

_ ‘Then they are very much mistaken.’  _ I fume irritably.  _ ‘And they do not know me at all. I hate being forced into anything; and I would rather die than be forced to become another’s plaything. And that’s what June is shaping me up to be.’ _

_ ‘You know that, and I know that to be true. But they don’t.’  _ Fen’Harel’s words calm me, and I reach to hug him.  _ ‘It is why I have decided to lend my assistance to you.’  _

_ ‘And you will forever have my gratitude for that.’ _

_ ‘It won’t be worth much should you not return, will it now?’  _ He huffs with a growling laugh, and I laugh alongside with him. There’s no bite in his words; it’s just a good-natured teasing. Fen is just like that, stating the truth regardless how callous it may sound. I suppose it is his wolf-like nature; it doesn’t like beating around the bush.

Unless it is to trick others. I’ve seen the little and not-so-little jokes he plays on others, servants and nobles alike. Then he can be as patient and devious as they come. The surprising thing is they are the ones to put themselves at his dubious mercy; aware of his nature, yet still seeking his assistance. Sometimes, it ends up in their favor. But the greedy and the wicked pay for their misdeeds; and the reckless and bold get their asses handed out to them. He forces People out of their comfort zone, and the results of his tricks all depend on their fortitude and adaptability. He derives a lot of enjoyment from playing others to his tune, which is the one aspect he shares with the Evanuris. But opposed to them, he rarely ever does it for his benefit - aside from amusement. His tricks are meant to teach lessons; it's just that what needs to be learned can be cruel. 

I observe, and sometimes even partake in his plays. The wolf tells me one day he used to do much more of that; nowadays, the tricks are meant for my enjoyment, more than anything. He tells me warmly that he has found a much more interesting occupation. That making me laugh is a new purpose in his dreary existence. 

I very nearly blush whenever he says sweet things like that. Jokingly, I tell him he would have been a real charmer had he been a man; Fen puffs up in reaction and reassures me he is without doubt a male. I can’t help laughing at his offence, and intertwine my fingers into thick strands of his fur.

If there’s one thing I will undoubtedly miss from Thedas, it will be the wolf.


	5. Restricted...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breath and Life - Audiomachine

It’s not explicitly stated, but I am aware that my behaviour is monitored, and my movement restricted. It is clear in the way my handlers exchange nervous glances whenever I bring up travelling anywhere; and June always deflects any suggestions of this kind. I know they do not trust me - and with good reason - but this is downright ludicrous. Where would I go? How would I hide in the world where everyone bows to Evanuris’ will? I couldn’t escape from them had I rambled far and wide across Thedas.

Nonetheless, that’s how things are, and my freedom is limited to Arlathan’s walls. As if forcing me to remain in this world wasn’t enough of an insult! But for now, I leave it be, deciding against drawing undue attention by arguing about it. There’s plenty to see and do in the city, in any case.

The capital of Elvhenan is, admittedly, a wonder to behold. Smaller and larger buildings climbing up, shaping into illusions of fragile ice spikes; but with much more regularity and deliberateness to them than the natural phenomena. Sculpted into artful arrangements, they glint with magic and hard to describe, ethereal kind of beauty. A crowning jewel of the city is, of course, Mythal’s palace.

Arlathan is also very green, for all its limited space. Smaller and larger gardens decorate back and frontyards; and carefully cultivated trees and vines are slipped into every nook of the city. The magically bent branches fit around the lanterns and into the in-between small space. Vines climb up the windowsills and roofs, naturally matching the emerald-veined marble. It all amounts to an impression of a beating, breathing life in the whole city.

It is especially beautiful at sunrises and sundowns. When the first rays of sun begin warming up the skies, Arlathan’s white walls and towers create a wondrous play of light; it splits and falls in a myriad of colours on the ground; like an artwork of glittering splashes of paint, prettily illuminating objects around it. The wolf sometimes takes me out to practice magic in the mornings and I use the many hues to help me in differentiating strands of mana I as weave them into spells.

The sundown is best appreciated when looking from the highest towers. A perspective the floating city provides on the lands below is one of a kind. They become coated in blood red as shadows grow longer and longer until everything melts into darkness . The strings of bridges hanging in the air and connecting Arlathan with grounds below, are like ruby veins in this setting. Going up, held by invisible forces of Fade and leading to the beating heart of the nation, the magnificent Arlathan.

I am somewhat regretful I am not allowed to see it from down below, as well. I bet it would look like a crimson star, a mirage worthy of power and might it holds within. I have to be satisfied with my imagination of it instead; which for all my creativity just doesn't compare.

With its burning inner brightness, Arlathan etches itself deeply into my heart against my best intentions to keep it away. I would have much preferred to be able to detest it just as honestly as I detest its masters.

It takes me years to fully explore the city; years during which I see lives of the Elvhen in both their glory and lowliness. Thedas is a brutal world of harsh unforgiving laws and many tragedies. And while the magic helps to make the edge of reality blunter, it’s still there, wrapped in cotton but cutting and dangerous. For all their longevity, death in its many forms is never far from the Elvhen. The poor get little to no help; dying from various diseases or during severe winters. The rich and noble partake in political disputes, many of which end at a swordpoint or in assassination of one of the sides. Natural disasters like floods or typhoons wreck plenty of havoc; but with so many mages, there are also not-so-natural catastrophes to contend with. Thedas is a place where only the strong survive; and cowering in the shadow of giants, the meek and helpless suffer unjustly.

Seeing all that, I begin understanding why the servants consider me fortunate. In my position, elevated by June’s favour above the mightiest of nobles, I am kept safe. Well fed, well clothed, without worries plaguing my days. I suppose it ought to be considered an honour.

But instead, I curse June all the more for choosing me instead of some poor soul from down below who would actually be grateful for all that protection and love. I needed no saving; I was happy back home. With my paintings and friends and university and Jeff.

And thinking about it all, I moan softly in sudden realisation - because ultimately, unfortunately, Jeff had been proven right by the life itself. Again.

It has been a couple of years, but he has become an afterthought for me. Where the loss of my other closest relations aches like a gaping, ever-bleeding wound, towards my boyfriend I have only varying shades of guilt. His personality, what attracted me to him - Christ, even his face - had become blurred. After merely a couple of years. I hadn’t even realized the exact moment when I’ve stopped thinking about him with more than just warmth. What does it say about me?

Clearly, my feelings for him weren’t quite as strong as I believed them to be. My love was just as fleeting as he accused me.

It takes me awhile to get over this sudden piece of knowledge about myself - something I was better of not knowing. The wolf looks at me with worry plainly expressed in his enchantingly deep gaze as I walk on not enough sleep, with dark shadows under my eyes and puffed up cheeks. I can’t fully express to him how disappointed I am with myself; how difficult it is, not meeting one’s own expectations. I’ve never expected to find myself so… shallow.

Finally, with a desperate stubbornness I force myself out of the pit of self recriminations. I claw my way back to the normal life, telling myself firmly that had the circumstances not forced us apart, I might have never stopped loving Jeff. It is not my fault they did…

Maybe someday I will even convince myself of the hidden grains of truth in these words instead of mockingly picking them apart for all the self-justifications they contain.

What really picks me up, however, is the refusal to let Mythal know she is getting to me. That Thedas is getting to me; changing who I am. For an indisputable fact it is, I make a good job ignoring it. Pretending that years in captivity left me the same girl who dreamed vividly and painted vivaciously, as if her life depended on it.

I clench my teeth and return to the observations of Elvhenan’s society, noting the quirks and unusual facts with intensity of person on a death row, observing the final glimpses of life before it’s taken from them. I use anything and everything as a distraction from my unpleasant criticism of myself; and slowly, it loses it’s hold over me.

There’s no district for the poor, no slums, in Arlathan; but saying that consequently there’s no poverty in the capital would be a lie. The less fortunate - servants - simply live with their masters in their quarters within the impressive mansions. And while they are spared the danger of having no roof over their heads, they get dragged into deadly disputes as unfortunate bystanders instead. Honestly, I am not certain which fate is worse.

From my frequent vantage point on the walls, I can see them rushing between their tasks. Considering that they often need to make their way down and back up the floating rock supporting the city, they must have little spare time on their hands.

The capital is supplied by grounds below it, where the peasants have their farms of cattle and grain. I know next to nothing about their conditions or how does it feel to constantly live in a shadow of power; but I do not think they have it that bad. For all their overbearing arrogance, Evanuris frown on the careless cruelty towards one’s lessers. There’s a healthy dose of hypocrisy in their behaviour when one looks at their own actions, but I suppose they feel themselves above the law.

I find out a lot more about them with our increased interactions. It’s not much of a choice; I am just more exposed to them as I go through my daily life. By becoming more social, I can expand my reach when I search for answers how to weaken Mythal’s hold over me; and I do not stop just because it means spending more time with insane weirdoes which rule this realm. June’s family is a bunch of deeply troubled individuals of very distinct personalities; with overinflated egos and at the same time, attention-seeking tendencies. It’s so damn contradictory, I feel confounded on most days.

The youngest - and decisively the least bloodthirsty of the bunch - is Sylaise, June’s younger sister. I would have liked to say that since she is the lesser evil in the midst of the Evanuris, I have managed to get comfortable around her. Alas, is is not to be, for Sylaise positively hates me. Initially I am stumped why the golden-haired, blue eyed impersonification of sweetness becomes a flame-spitting dragon in my presence. Through careful digging around for information, I finally unearth the knowledge that Sylaise adores June. She always has. My presence severely limits June’s time with her; and apparently ever since our first meeting, the boy has barely spared her any of his attention. Since she loves him, and cannot be angry with him, she places the blame for this situation on me.

However, for all her glares and snide remarks Sylaise is mostly harmless. Which could not be said for Andruil.

Andruil’s antipathy towards me is refreshingly impersonal. June’s older sister, and self-proclaimed patron of the hunters, simply despises anything associated with her younger brother; and I’m a glaring evidence of June’s talents, a reward for his efforts. She used to be Elgar’Nan’s favourite child, before June came along and stole her thunder. I can, to a degree, sympathize with her frustration. Her power and domain are both impressive; and she has fought for a long time to achieve the reverence she has among the Elvhen. Associated with bravery, challenging oneself, fighting and strength, she is the most warlike among the siblings; and the least likely to take an insult lying down. June’s very presence offends her; for his inventions and brilliance outshine her contributions to Elvhen society; and he is still merely a child. She feels understandably threatened in her position, and is unwilling to concede and step down from her leading position among the pantheon.

I have to watch my back around her; and she always has many acerbic words for me. In the back of my mind I am frighteningly aware that she would love to break her brother’s newest toy on the smallest - or contrived - excuse. Since I’m constantly accompanied by either Fen or June, it prevents her from acting on those urges; a fact I’m very glad about.

Yet for all my wariness - and with good reason - in Andruil’s presence, the one I feel least comfortable to be around is Falon’Din. The god of Uthenara, his domain is in the restful slumber that Elvhen fall into once they tire of their existence. Few ever find it in themselves to return among the living once they experience the worriless existence his realm grants.

The large cave complex under Arlathan has been completely turned into carved out in stone chambers for the sleepers. Corridors and staircases span over multiple floors, connecting these peaceful, completely silent halls. Surprisingly, once I visit there, I find there aren’t quite that many of People in Uthenara laid down for their rest. It gives me another perspective of how dangerous the life on Thedas really is - even for the armed in magic and not restricted by passage of time beings. Adding to that a stubborn unwillingness of most of the Elvhen to give up their current existence, and it wholly explains the nearly empty Halls of Falon’Din.

But it’s not his peculiar domain which creeps me out; although it is quite disturbing, once I allow myself to think about it. No, what worries me the most is that I see in him an older version of June, in spite of their vast physical difference; where June is fair and exuberant, Falon’Din is dark and brooding. Possibly due to being surrounded by insensate bodies on daily basis. I can imagine it would suck out the happy feelings out of anyone.

But he is very similarly driven to the Golden Child. They share this intense, passionate personality beneath their respective masks; June hides it below his cheerful innocence, and Falon’Din under constant sour glowers. There’s a very disquieting devotion in his eyes when he observes his older brother, Dirthamen. And he hangs on his very word, jumping at the merest gesture and sullenly pouting at the slightest disapproval - very much like June does with me.

Dirthamen is fondly exasperated by his younger twin’s behaviour, but there’s a casual dismissal in his off-handed treatment of him. He does not treat Falon’Din seriously. It hurts his brother each time he is so easily abandoned in favour of more interesting endeavours that capture Dirthamen’s attention. But it never discourages him; and he never gives up on hope that one day, the situation will change.

From the rumours in the palace, this has been going on for the past ten centuries, at the very least. Even before they were fully grown into their adulthood, Falon’Din was chasing after Dirthamen relentlessly.

It’s downright scary. If I were to see in him an image of who June will grow up to become, then I could never hope for the Golden One to simply get bored with me. On the contrary; the compulsive obsession only seems to gain in strength with time.

Dirthamen, the oldest of Mythal’s children, is somewhat of an enigma amongst Mythal’s children. His face remains stoically unreadable no matter the situation; and with the many random things Falon’Din does to attract his eye, it is quite a feat. For many years I am uncertain what he thinks about me. And even after I do, it’s only a general impression, nothing in certainties. And what he thinks of Falon’Din’s antics is anyone’s guess. It’s just not in his nature to be expressive.

He turns out to be cautiously sympathetic towards my plight. As a god of secrets, he has ways of finding out things about others, regardless of their best intentions. I have a heart-stopping encounter with him one day, as I am skimming through library books; it leaves me shaking, drenched in cold beads of sweat running down my back. Like a fresh leaf under a summer storm, I remain powerlessly dependant upon his goodwill.

Now, let’s be perfectly honest here - for all my motivation, my progress with studying magic has been snail slow. I thought I understood that when I was making this commitment; but reality unfortunately exceeded my expectations. What for Elvhen comes as naturally as breathing, I had to learn step by step, painstakingly carving in my memory deliberate motions which affect the flow of magic in the air. I had to learn how to gather power in the back of my head, and how to spring it to life at my command; how to evaluate the flow of mana so to not exhaust myself and how to judge whether a spell is at all feasible for my current skill. How to strain my fingers in unusual ways, bending the mana to create the shapes I desired - and which movements disturbed the equilibrium, and which pushed it forward.

Mana, to a degree, is like another muscle - only in the back of one’s brain. Unpracticed, it remains stagnant and unresponsive; but with enough effort it can grow and expand; gain in mass, so to speak. Of course, just like every other muscle, it is limited by natural predispositions of its user; and that’s why I could never achieve the power level of Mythal’s or Fen’s, a naturally highly magical beings.

And there are days when the task ahead of me seems insurmountable. For one thing that I learn, there are ten more that are suddenly within my grasp, and all of them necessary to further my understanding. The paths I can take with my studies diverge; there are countless resolutions to one problem, countless approaches how to affect things. Fen has different solutions than Mythal; and June sees everything completely uniquely to anyone else. All of them are correct; and at the same time all of them are wrong, for none of their solutions are mine. I have to find the way to deal with the situation which is uniquely mine, because it hasn’t been attempted ever before - no one as weak as myself - an ant next to a towering giant - had ever attempted overthrowing Evanuris’ authority in the arcanum.

Sometimes the helplessness overwhelms me. I feel so meager and powerless in comparison to Mythal’s might; chains around my soul remain as strong as ever. Now that I can finally perceive them, they are even more intimidating. At these times depression strikes with renewed strength, and I hug my knees in a corner of my room, curling myself into a ball and cry softly. I remain wholly unproductive for next couple of hours, and Fen has to slowly coax me out of my shell; reassure me that yes, I can, I will do it. That for all the power Mythal wields, my determination far exceeds it. I note grumpily that I do not feel very motivated at the moment, and he just looks at me with endless, wise patience in his eyes; and I feel like a chastised child. And I pick myself up again, because it’s just unimaginable not to do so. Dragging my feet I allow him to lead me outside to face the world again.

It is one of such days when I have my encounter with Dirthamen. The weather is dreary, dark clouds hiding away the blue of the skies; nature corresponding to my mood. I’m attempting to read one of the passages on soul manipulation from the book in front of me; but in reality I am completely lost in the overwhelming me misery. My inattention is such I do not notice a new presence, until Dirthamen looms over me, shadowing the scarce light from the window up above.

I jerk in my seat, panicked, and instinctively try to cover the text – before cursing myself for stupidity. That was brilliantly done. Now I’m certain to have his attention. Dirthamen scans the stack of my books wordlessly, before turning around and disappearing among the shelves.

I release the breath I was holding, relieved. Prematurely. He returns soon enough, and gently removes my hand from the book it covered. I stare at him boldly, daring him to comment, as he leans in and whispers into my ear:

 _‘Do keep your nerves on a tighter leash. Your behaviour practically screams_ **_guilty._ ** _’_ His voice quivers with naked amusement; and I instinctively scowl, irritated to be an object of ridicule. Dirthamen’s lips tug in the edges in a slight smirk, and he withdraws promptly under my warning glare.

It is only once he leaves that I unclench my hands, dispassionately noting bleeding wounds my nails have carved into my palms. Trembling from the fright, I close my eyes, shaken.

Way too damn close.

It is only once a few minutes have trickled by that I realize he had placed another book atop of my own – "The Art Of Dispelling".

The contents of it are beyond my reach, but they give me foundation for lifting Mythal’s spell. Encouraged by this unexpected break, I return to my studies with renewed enthusiasm, devouring its contents before the day is over.

 _‘Why did he give me that?’_ I ask Fen during our daily session.

We have changed our timetable ever since I was able to move past the basics. Fen has showed me an incredible opportunity Thedas has to offer - dreamwalking. It is all the more incredible that with our consciousness cut off from our bodies, we are able to directly connect to the Fade, shaping the dream reality however we like. It helps that I am no longer limited by my meager mana pool; and the nights are spent on productive experiments. Unfortunately, since I am not actually using any of my own strength during this time, I have to add practice during daytime as well. Otherwise my mana wouldn’t expand; and Fen repeats to me constantly that it is incredibly important to ingrain the correct motions into my muscle memory so that my body can instinctively aid my spellcasting. Obviously, I am not doing any of that while my body lays motionless in deep slumber.

In consequence, it means boring, repetitive practice spells during the day. Going over the basics I remember already so well I do not need any input from Fen to perform them correctly; but apparently my sensitivity is increasing, so that is good?

I guess?

I have to admit that ever since the schedule shift, there have been days when I simply slacked off. The damnable stuff is so mind-numbing; and while I understand its necessity, I simply cannot bring myself to be enthusiastic about it.

During those lazy days I walk in the gardens with wolf, deliberating on the differences between Thedas and my world. It is much more fulfilling conversation than those I used to have with June; the wolf is infinitely more mature and wise in the ways of Thedas. I am again starkly reminded of June’s youth.

Fen never pushes me to practice more. While he has promised to help me - and he is definitely upholding his end of the bargain - he is not very eager to send me back home. I am certain that he grew very fond of my company; and for all that I enjoy his, some part of me worries slightly that one day, he might go back on his deal. He might just decide that he would rather keep me here.

But I do not let these vague, rather misplaced concerns to affect our easy friendship. The wolf values independency, and understands my need - not want, need - to return home. He himself feels stifled within Mythal’s palaces walls, and I can hear him grumbling halfheartedly about it from time to time. I remind him that as opposed to me nothing is keeping him here, and if he wants to go, he is free to do so. Fen just snarks derisively, replying.

 _‘And leave you here on your own? Who knows what I would find upon my return. No, you are not ridding of me quite this easily, my friend - for all my fondness of the open spaces, your sparkling personality is much more interesting than the impersonal wilderness out there.’_ He continues pacing nervously, disliking the enclosed walls of the cage I’m imprisoned in; but I don’t suggest it again.

The wolf is more comfortable in Fade world, the endless realm which he can shape in accordance with his desires allowing him much needed relief. Which is why most of our lessons take place in a shadowed forest glades, or vast plains spanning across many miles - whatever his imagination conjures for us to see. Often, he goes for a run while I digest the contents of our current lesson - it is not quite as pleasant as doing so physically, but he claim to be quite satisfied. With the way his mind is so much more attuned to the Fade world than mine, who am I to argue.

 _‘Fen? I asked you a question.’_ I am getting impatient with his prolonged silence. Even if he is thinking, he can do so out loud, so I have a vague idea where his thoughts are leading.

 _‘At a guess - he wants to block June’s growth’_ replies the wolf slowly, but there’s a ring of uncertainty in it. _‘Your disappearance will, at the very least, stunt it, and at best, entirely diffuse his motivation.’_

_‘I’m glad for his selfishness, then. At least I do not have to like him.’_

Fen laughs.

 _‘You don’t’_ he admits after his chuckles subside. I curl up against his fur, taking heart in his presence, calming my frazzled nerves. The meeting shook me more than I would have cared to admit.

But Dirthamen does not disturb my peace anymore, and I am reluctantly forced to consider that maybe his motives were more complicated than Fen’s guess. When a couple of his well-placed comments prevent me from committing some grievous missteps, I am begrudgingly grateful to him. Almost in spite of myself, I begin liking him and his very down-to-earth personality. While he keeps his mask up without ever letting it slip, there’s a keen mind beneath it, and a dry wit which reminds me of Fen. I slowly relax in his presence, and consider him an ally in this palace of vipers, ready to strike.

June’s strict father, Elgar’nan, is one whom the Elvhen associate with justice and its more savage other side, vengeance. He is their final resort when they cannot bring their conflict to satisfactory resolution; one visited also as a literally **last** resort, because oftentimes both sides leave his judgement unsatisfied. But still, they come and ask him for his strict decrees.

I see it with my own eyes once only. The criminal in question faces some hefty charges; but nonetheless nothing prepares me for seeing him torn into bloody pieces by the unforgiving power of Elgar’Nan’s justice. I leave the site barely holding back my nausea; supported only by my pride which refuses to allow bystanders to see me in such wretched condition. Fen spends the day patiently watching over me puking my guts in the bathroom.

I do not question whether Elgar’Nan’s decision was right or wrong; this is not my world, and not my laws. This day just reminds me of yet another reason why I do not want it to become mine.

And then there’s Mythal herself.

The cause of my misfortune, and the one who stubbornly refuses to relinquish her hold over my soul in this damnable place.

I can say that my hatred of her is fully reciprocated.


	6. Understanding...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Hero Within Us - David Eman & Trevor DeMaere

Sylaise is possibly my greatest - certainly most vehement - enemy in the palace, but I cannot discount Mythal’s dissatisfaction with me. Andruil on the other hand, for all her passive aggression directed my way is perfectly content to forget my existence. Out of sight, out of mind, as people say. Such is not the case with her mother. Mythal is regularly confronted with results of my actions and cannot let me remain undisturbed. Especially ever since I have begun exerting my influence over June to achieve my goals, she has been growing increasingly more angry with me. Obviously, she considers me unworthy of her prodigious child’s love; something she would be surprised to find I actually agree with. June, for all his faults, deserves someone honest. Someone willing to love him back, return all the generosity and warmth is him. Unfortunately, he chose an ungrateful subject to bestow his graces upon.

While she cannot really hurt me for fear of losing her child’s esteem, Mythal finds other ways to make my life unnecessarily difficult. After I rope June into doing a particularly straining favour for one of Elvhenan’s nobles, sometime near end of my second decade on Thedas - although, truth to be told, I have long lost the exact count - she finally has had enough. To express her utter disapproval, she arranges for me tutors in matters she has explained to June will help me take my rightful place by his side when the time comes. Lessons of history, courtly manners, politics, economics and even basic diplomacy - even though Elvhen frown upon the so-called lesser races that populate Thedas, they skill keep up with appearances, to a degree.  It makes me seethe at the wasted time and doze off in boredom during the lectures. Still, against my honest desire to be contrary simply for the sake of it, I pick up some stuff.

There are teachers for bloody everything. They show me how to move more gracefully, how to keep my poise regardless of circumstances, how to bow with just the right angle in my back and neck, and the precise tilt of my hand depending on the station of the one I’m bending my body for. Dancing, horse riding - gryphon riding too although it all has little purpose since I’m still forbidden from leaving the city; literature; and it is all so tedious and pointless. I am fully aware Mythal is cramming my days to the brim; ensuring I will have less time for the petitioners.

Now, to be fair, it’s not all bad. The Elvhen poems are works of art, and I can’t really do them justice. Like perfect strokes of a thin brush, they bring to life the ideas they express; and I am always in awe of the carefully arranged wordplay within them. Many meanings, multiple hidden layers - lyrical like the language itself.

I also learn to enjoy riding. On earth horses have grown largely obsolete with the age of technology; and became an expensive hobby to have. Since I was saving all of my spare cash for art supplies, I’ve never experienced riding a horse but one time - and even then I fell down faster than I could think. Let me tell you, it is definitely not quite as easy as it appears.

Now, with all the time to spare - and I push away uncomfortable thoughts about home and duty and return, which I prolong with each wasted second - I indulge with childlike fascination. The large, generally docile animals crane their long necks my way, and I find enjoyment in the longer and shorter trots in the palace’s expansive gardens.

Griffin riding is a whole new thing; the skies which look so amazing from down below turn out to be quite frightening. The wind changes and sudden shifts as the large creatures accommodate for it - surprisingly, for all their mightiness, they make for exceedingly uncomfortable mounts. They are by no means faster than the horses, for all their advantage of travelling above ground. Griffons are unused to long-distance travelling, their bodies more adjusted to short bursts of rapid activity and then weeks of lounging around with full bellies.

But the biggest surprise among it all is dancing. Back home, I had no musical talent whatsoever. My singing was out of tune and out of rhythm; and all that, coupled with my clumsiness - with a sad smile I recall that it as the cause behind my meeting with Jeff - had made me a nightmare on a dancefloor. Such is not the case anymore.

While I still can’t sing to save my life, even with my much purer voice, elvhen ears can pick up on the inner rhythm of melody much more easily than my faulty human ones ever could. It brings me unadulterated joy, hearing the nuances hidden within the lyrical notes crafted by the skillful hands of the musicians. Wolf, for the life of him, cannot comprehend what I see in prancing around in elaborate figures on the dancefloor; and I can’t really explain it. How can I express years of jealousy, of watching others glide while remaining stuck near the wall? I’ve always enjoyed listening to good music; it often accompanied me during my late nights spent on painting. It feels wonderful, finding another side to it; something else I can enjoy about it.

It feels wonderful, finding some positive aspects on Thedas. I can’t spend all my time fearful of the uncertain fate, or I would go completely crazy. All these small, bright spots help in staving off depression, which constantly looms around the corner. And I do not dare to look it straight in the face; I’m afraid what I would find. What I would find out, about myself, and about my weakening resolve.

A side yet unfortunate consequence of it is that I have less time for practicing my magic, which for all my disinterested reluctance I am attempting to do regularly. I do not think it is intentional on her part - I am quite certain Mythal remains in the dark as to my true intentions. But nonetheless it happens, and my progress is slowed down even more.

Since Mythal is bent on making my days difficult, I do not hesitate from using my newly acquired knowledge to flaunt my lack of respect for her and her overbearing ways. But I tread carefully - there’s a fine line between defiance and suicide; and in the presence of Evanuris it becomes disturbingly blurry. They can be a bloodthirsty bunch.

I am deeply aware - and if I have to own up the truth, I am frightened - that in spite of June’s favour, outright revolt will get me killed. There’s a limit to Mythal’s tolerance due to my extenuating circumstances; and there’s a limit how much she will tolerate for June’s sake. So I walk with my head held high while the other Elvhen bow theirs; Mythal has done nothing to earn my regard. But when I am ordered to do something, I do not hesitate from doing it. For all my stubbornness, I am not keen on losing my life. I have mastered the art of remaining obediently disrespectful.

Dirthamen is the first to name that what spurs me on, for all the danger I am courting - much to Fen’s exasperation, for the wolf would prefer if I kept my sass to myself. I can’t find the words that explain my need to disagree with the most dangerous being that ever walked Thedas; my constant pushing of her already frayed patience with me. But then, when Dirthamen finally names it, at first I don’t see it the way others do...

It is a simple jest on his part as he responds to his brother’s query in regards to me - because June also looks up to him, much like Falon’Din, although without the disturbing passion clouding his judgement. And he often comes to find his explanations with the God of Secrets for my unreasonable, in his eyes, behaviour.

It mystifies me why he goes to Dirthamen instead of Fen; since we’ve exchanged but a couple of conversations during my many years spent in Arlathan. While the Evanuris ultimately proves to be a shockingly accurate judge of my character, his knowledge of my motivations must be full of holes. For all I’ve spoken about myself, not a lot was said outside of Fade where me and Fen bask in undisturbed peace - and the wolf has reassured me there’s no way for anyone to intrude on us there.

_‘I’m surprised you have to ask. The gracious Fean’Na always walks with her head held high, and refuses to cower before anyone. Even before our most esteemed mother.’_

_‘Fean’Na doesn’t comprehend the danger she is putting herself in!’_ June raises his voice in complaint. I cringe, counting my blessings since Mythal absented herself early after the supper. I could not bear her condescension levied upon me in this situation. Inwardly, I curse June for his complete lack of awareness of when and where ask his damnable questions. He hasn’t realized that their conversation has attracted much attention from the surrounding tables, the nobles leaning closer to listen in.

Dirthamen has a twinkle of contrary amusement in his normally closed-off eyes, which tells me he is not only very much aware of the situation, but also of my irritation with it.

 _‘On the contrary, brother of mine. I would wager she is much more aware of it than you are, but she deems maintaining her pride worth the risk.’_ He pauses, adding thoughtfully. _‘In fact, it would not be much of an exaggeration to call her Pride impersonified. She certainly behaves like it.’_

June doesn’t appreciate his brother’s conciliatory explanation, grumbling under his nose and walking away with thunderous glower on his face. I shake my head and put it out of my mind, glad that this embarrassing discourse about me is finally over.

It might have started as a jest, but soon, it gains a life of its own. Before I know it, the servants and nobles both refer to me with respectful bow and a single word, spoken like an honorary title.

Sola. _Pride._

In spite of how ludicrous it sounds at first, it gets me thinking. Maybe Dirthamen was really onto something? I’ve never considered myself as particularly proud. Stubborn to a fault, certainly. Decisive, and appreciating my freedoms, without doubt. But proud? And yet… There’s something in the way the name spreads like wildfire among the people in the palace that stops me from dismissing the idea.

 _‘It fits you.’_ The wolf says, laughing at my confusion. I turn my head away, regretting having asked his opinion. _‘It fits you so well, I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before.’_ But there’s no irritation in his words at this oversight, just deep appreciation, and maybe even a little bit of awe. I have the most nonsensical urge to preen after his compliment, but I manage to stop before making an even greater fool of myself.

Once Fen says it, I have no choice but to accept his words. I trust him; and I believe he sees me more clearly than anyone. I’ve shared everything of myself with him. How can I doubt his judgement in such circumstances?

And I also need to accept that I have changed. I might not have wanted to, but after over three decades here, I shouldn’t have expected anything else (and it’s like a punch in the gut once I realize it’s been over **three decades** ). I do not think I was proud before coming to Thedas - or at least, not much. But being here forced me to adapt in many ways. My pride became my shield, helping me to bear this cruel, forced upon me reality. And it is by far not the worst trait I have acquired, nor one I should be ashamed of - I would say my skills in manipulation and deceit top that list.

And at the very least, I can bear this new badge with pride. It would be shameful to do anything less, be anything but. My resolve to suit this new definition of me grows; and as increasing number of people calls me by that name, somehow I become more and more like the person they would see in me. The person I suddenly realized I would wish to be.  

Understanding myself better, and acceptance of this newly developed self help me gain in confidence. Now that I have a name - reason - for it, I grow even bolder in my quiet rebellion. It breathes more life into me; a wind to carry my wings as I find ways to fly in my cage. The many little ways in which I fight back, clawing for my freedom with unrelenting desperation, for I refuse to be cowed. And along the way, before I know it, my steps gain more assurance in them, and I no longer dread making the wrong move in this deadly Palace. Somehow, I stop being the beaten-up by Fate beggar at the Queen’s table; somehow I begin owing my fate again.

It also, finally, helps me get over my guilt about Jeff. He is now no more than a vague shadow in my memories - more of an awareness that someone like that existed, than an actual person I am recalling. Maybe I did not love him quite as much as he deserved, but I cared about him to the best of my ability. There was no deceit there; I was honestly attached to him. And I have to remember, I will never have the chance to repent if I don’t get myself out of here.

I have found my pride, and alongside it motivation to keep going. It’s mystifying, how such little thing can make a world of difference.

Mythal is not very happy with my transformation; she rightfully feels that she is losing control over me. Her pointed barbs no longer penetrate my skin, and the nonchalance I used to fake is not false anymore. But the wolf’s eyes gleam with approval and he doesn't need to piece me back together after my bouts of melancholy anymore. No, now I am strong enough to pick myself up on my own.

Now that I am more certain of myself, I can see things more clearly not only about myself, but about the wolf as well. He was - is - my saviour, and I’ve seen him only in positive light, remaining blind to his faults. I do not regret it, for it made it easier for both of us to get closer and find friendship - but now I find my insight lacking, and our friendship lackluster. He is there for me, true, but just the same I should be there for him. I resolve to push him towards his greatness, because I can see it clearly even if no one else can - the wolf has potential for greatness in him.

But he is lazy. Few things motivate him to act; and even in my case it was not compassion but curiosity which pushed him to move. I am not angry when he admits as much, with sheepishly flattened ears and apologetically slumped shoulders. How could I be? Fen did not know me then; he owed me nothing.

His favour is a fickle thing after all; granted on a whim and just as easily taken away. I must have been the single case when he had become interested, and **remained** that way for prolonged period of time. When I ask him about it in curiosity, he laughs at me.

_‘That’s because you are special, Pride. Unlike anyone else.’_

I blush and turn my head away from him, trying to suppress my mortification. It was just a simple compliment, God have mercy on me!

My attempt proves meaningless as Fen huffs in amusement and without hesitation walks around, pushing his wolfish head into the crook of my neck. I flinch slightly when his cold, slightly wet nose hits my skin.

 _‘You can’t hide from me.’_ His hot breath burns against my collarbone, but the feeling is surprisingly pleasant. Suppressing a delighted shiver I drape my hands over his body, burying my head in the black waves of his thick fur.

 _‘You shouldn’t call out a lady on her embarrassment.’_ I mutter indignantly, still flushed. It earns me another chuckle, and I groan deciding to abandon the topic before it gets even more uncomfortable for me.

 The Elvhen are wary of him, calling him Dread Wolf both as a sign of respect and a caution against trusting his words easily. And their vigilance is not without reason, I have to admit. His tricks and plays at the expense of others can be seen as cruel, at times, and always demand a lot from their recipients. I can easily recall how I was reluctant to believe his reassurances, almost against myself. But hope had already begun to bloom in my heart, and almost in spite of myself I followed his guidance. If I were to be honest, I had to admit I had no choice but to believe him.

Now I push him to get more involved with things. When he snaps at me, saying that he feels fine the way he is, I remind him that he is not without faults. If he can encourage me to achieve the impossible, why would I do any less for him? I am his friend.

My words quiet his protests, and he falls deep in thought. Even though he doesn’t say a single word more on the topic, I count it as a success. It can’t be easy, changing, with his routine engraved in him for hundreds - thousands - of years.

My complacent mood and easy-going attitude gets disturbed when in my fourth decade, June enters into puberty.

At first, I do not recognize the signs. Yes, he becomes more needy and clingy - but I judge it to be some kind of phase, which will soon pass. Only it doesn’t, and I grow more and more disturbed by his constant invasions on my personal space. He was always free with his affectionate touches, but know he just can’t seem to keep his hands off me.

In the meantime, Hunter’s Moon is fast approaching in the beginning of my fifth decade on Thedas, and all of the Elvhenan prepares for it. It is a celebration in Anruil’s name, a single night every two years when stars align in her constellation. I’m observing the chaos accompanying the arrangements with cynical distance; completely detached from the energetically festive spirit.

I’ve never really understood the purpose of the Evanuris showing off their might to the populace. For me, the only use I can see in Hunter’s Moon is as a measure of passage of time - I would have completely lost it, had it not been for these regular feasts. But clearly, there is a reason for it - Andruil doesn’t have an altruistic bone in her body. She would never arrange anything so troublesome and time consuming without it serving some greater purpose.

I inquire Fen about it. He is astounded by the question, as if it should have been obvious - but nonetheless, he patiently explains it for me.

_‘The Evanuris are not gods - not by your definition. They are not omnipotent as you well know. And their very power is strongly tied to their followers. The more prayers an Evanuris receives, the larger the potential at his or her disposal. That is not to say they have no strength in their own right - but the Creators in their wisdom established this caveat in order to ensure the Evanuris would actually care about their dependants.’_

I frown, considering his explanation. Certainly, it explains why Andruil would care - and why she is so jealous of June. I thought it was merely her wounded ego speaking, that losing so much to this youngest brother of hers was unacceptable. Now, there’s a more tangible and practical reason for her version.

 _‘And how do you play into all this?’_ I ask with avid interest.

 _‘Me?’_ He stands up and stretches his humongous body. His bones creak slightly, and muscles tremble after having served as my pillow for the past couple of hours. I stare unashamedly at this picture of impersonified lethality both in power and in intellect, overcome with awe. Sometimes when he behaves like a domesticated dog, it’s easy to forget - I often do - but there’s nothing tame about him. Never had I imagined I would be this close to such predator, remaining at his mercy and yet at the same time - completely safe. I fight off an impulse to entangle my hands into his fur back again, scolding myself for greediness. Enough is enough.

 _‘I am not one of them. Although I suppose I could be, if I so desired.’_ Fen muses thoughtfully, stealing a glance at me. A flash of something crosses his stormy eyes, but before I can decipher it, he turns his head away pretending not to have looked. A bit irritated for no apparent reason, I struggle to keep my voice even.

_‘Don’t, I much prefer you the way you are.’_

_‘Ah, and here lies the crux of the matter.’_ He notes whimsically. _‘You wouldn’t have me any other way; while I would prefer to have you differently.’_

He jumps off the ledge, leaving me in his wake gaping.

What did he mean by that?

But I’ve no time to properly analyze his words, swept into the last preparations. Dirthamen asks for my opinion on some of the games he has prepared, and we both become engrossed in his puzzles; making them more complicated and dazzling. I am conscious of the evil glare Falon’Din sends my way during the meals, but the God of Secrets reassures me that he has matters well in hand. And it looks like he does, because his younger twin doesn’t speak a word to me; although his angered looks do not cease.

No, the trouble comes from the least expected source. I would have thought June would be happy about my involvement with his older brother - another sign of my adjusting, as his mother would say, to Thedas. A sign of my growing acceptance of this reality.

Instead he blows up in a feat of accusations and disjointed half-sentences; leaving me completely bewildered. It is only once he exclaims with a hurt complain the words ‘You are mine!’ that I grasp the problem.

He is jealous.

Understanding the situation doesn’t make me feel better, on the contrary - I grow even more concerned. June is too young to demand his rights from me; but that is only true for now. As he will mature, both emotionally and physically, his desires will clarify. And it will put me in decidedly unenviable position.

I need to get away from here before that happens.

My resolve reasserts itself while I spend the day on clumsy reassurances for the child. Fortunately June is too distraught to notice how out of it I am, and how feeble my words sound. He clings to me with desperation and unshed tears glittering in his eyes.

From this day onwards, I keep my distance from Dirthamen. The joy his company has brought is simply not worth the time I’ve wasted calming June’s irrational fears. And I do not need to get any more reasons to regret leaving Thedas behind.

Surrendering Fen’s precious companionship is plenty; and secretly some part of me dreads the day it will happen.

On the night of Hunter’s Moon, a large argument takes place between Falon’Din and Andruil. Not an unusual occurrence, as the warrior goddess has a tendency to cruelly mock her older brother for his unrequited love for Dirthamen. Of course, the God of Uthenara usually returns the insults without holding back, often turning her arguments on their tail and criticising her instability of affection and flightiness. This evening however the routine changes, gets more dangerous. Both of their nerves are for some reason short, and their typical barbs are both more venomous and reach further.

I can easily discern Falon’Din’s reason for unhappiness - namely myself, and my recent closeness with the object of his dreams. However it takes me a while to understand Andruil’s apprehension, and her vehement reaction in defence to Falon’Din’s usual accusations.

But a careful observation of her behaviour solves this mystery soon enough. The goddess sends longing glances in direction of one person in her entourage when she thinks nobody is paying attention. And as her exchange with Falon’Din escalates, she becomes more and more worried about the female’s reaction to it.

I’ve never seen her before with the hunters; and she stands out among them like a flower among rocks. The battle-hardened warriors with bodies of steel and fearless audacity are a stark contrast to her plump and pampered body and doe-like, naive eyes. Clearly, the sole reason for her presence is Andruil’s preference; and for a change it seems more than a casual fling. Andruil has never cared about her previous lovers’ feelings… Until now.

Dirthamen takes a step forward to interfere, while I glance uneasily in the direction of two annoyed Evanuris, before excusing myself from further participation in the event. Mythal easily dismisses me with a regal nod, having no use for my continued presence. I have made an appearance, as was required of me - but I am not interested in the Hunter’s Moon in the best of times, and now in particular. Andruil’s Hunt is a cruel, cruel tradition where the mighty play with their pray of various kinds - from former prisoners, released for their enjoyment, to animals like halla or more dangerous bears, or sometimes even dragons - or are being played with.

During one of my early Moon’s, a couple of reckless youths decided to earn Andruil’s favour by bringing down a dragon in her name. They were devoured instead; and the goddess merely laughed at their stupidity, not sparing them second thought afterwards. And only their families were left to mourn their children…

For many long months afterwards, the atmosphere in the palace remains strained; as both gods pick up pieces of their shattered hearts. Ghilan’Nain refused Andruil - who shockingly enough did **not** force her acceptance; and Falon’Din was once again turned away by Dirthamen. Irrationally, they turn the blame to each other; and everyone takes care to step carefully and speak quietly in their presence.

With the sole exception of me. As befitting my title I barge forward and wilfully disregard the tension, elated by my speedy progress towards my goal. Soon. Soon I will get home and leave this death trap behind.

So I snark and snarl and refuse to bow my head, proudly announcing my independence to the world. The Elvhen shake their head, thinking me either awe-inspiring or suicidal. I do not particularly care even though hearing my assumed name becomes rarity. I am known as Pride; and as Pride I will depart.

It turns out to be the last Hunter’s Moon I participate in; before the next one comes around, I am finally ready to leave.

 _‘Had you not been a wolf, I would have kissed you. Alas, this will have to do’_ I lean down, and draw his furry head into a hug, whispering, _‘Take care of yourself, my friend.’_

 _‘I will be awaiting your return.’_ The wolf replies, before adding softly. _‘Although for your sake, I hope we never meet again. Even if that means I am to wait forever.’_

Since there are no more words left, I reach within, loosening the last strand holding me back. As my consciousness flees, I am aware of my body slumping to the ground; the wolf supporting it before the hit. And then I fall, fall straight into darkness.


	7. Tenacious...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wind Queen - Two Steps From Hell

Opening my eyes, for the first few terrifying seconds I am terribly disoriented. The bright light blinds me, and I blink rapidly, trying to chase away the blurriness. I feel a strange weakness all over my body, as many people hover over me, checking my vitals and speaking to me. My heart beats rapidly in my chest, while my thoughts are completely jumbled up. In this sea of confusion, one thing prevails - an overwhelming relief, because Fen was right, in the end. I am finally back home.

Knowing him as well as I do, it should come as no surprise; but after many long years doubts have begun creeping up on me. 

It takes me a while to recall an explanation for the dazzling white around me. A hospital. The word feels foreign in my mind; but I decisively chase away the unnecessary melancholy. I am back, and I am happy. 

At first, I do not understand a word of what people around me say, English as forgotten as everything else. It is another moment of fear; but really, what did I expect? It has been over five decades since I’ve last used the language. It was bound to wane in my memory to some degree.

But then, slowly, as if walking out of drug-induced haze, everything starts coming back. After swallowing nervously, I’m able to respond to the doctor’s questions with a hoarse voice that sounds like stranger’s to my ears – yes, I’m fine. No, I do not feel any pain. No, I do not know what might have caused my coma – and the lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. I did not leave my wits behind, it seems. Nor did my expertise in deceiving others disappear just because I have crossed dimensions. 

Finally, I’m allowed to ask questions as well – and the first one is how long I had been asleep. Not about the date, because I realize bitterly that it would not give me any estimation. I have no recollection of last days in my realm. No, scratch that - I barely remember anything at all from my life here. The doctor replies that since I had been transported here, seven weeks have passed.

I review this information mentally, cringing. Less than fifty days equaled over five decades of lifetime. But I discard these thoughts quickly, firmly telling myself that it has nothing to do with me anymore. That I do not care. I’m not returning to Thedas ever again.

It is helpful that not much time has passed; I reassure myself firmly. It is helpful that my life wasn’t wasted stuck on a hospital bed. 

A miracle, they call me, speaking over my head as if I weren’t there, hearing every single word. An inexplicable coma for nearly a month, with close to none brain activity, and yet I wake up right as rain. Aside from initial, quite understandable shock, there’s little else wrong with me. Their fancy instruments confirm that as well; but I am told that I need to remain in their care for at least a day longer. It’s a precaution, I’m told - but in reality I’m nearly certain they want to perform more tests, come up with a reasonable explanation for my collapse.

Internally, I’m somewhat sympathetic of their confusion. A king’s ransom for anyone who could come up with an answer as unlikely as the truth, and then convince the others of it.

But I do not feel like a miracle. I feel like someone who has to pretend to be right as rain in a sea of strangers. And then more people come in and I have to pretend I know them, and that I know what they are talking about when they ask me more questions. It’s maneuvering a rapidly sinking ship through a deadly reef while desperately trying to reach the shore - a slow drowning process while the last of my strength leaves me. A doomed to failure effort; and when my friends - or at least I assume they are my friends - begin asking more astute questions, I run myself into a ditch.

I am forced to come up with a plausible lie, and at first my mind comes up blank. My head is full of things I could say to explain myself in Elvhenan; but here they just would not work. Here, they would get me into the crazy asylum and I did not escape one prison just to land myself in another. As uncomfortable silence prolongs, I blurt out with barely concealed edge of panic:

‘I don’t remember.’

It does have a distinct advantage of being close enough to the truth it won’t be hard to follow up on; although had I been entirely honest, I would have said that I have long forgotten. Them. Here. Most of the things. 

The two people who came to visit me exchange worried glances.

‘That’s not funny, Joanne.’ Says a redhead woman, crossing her arms and glaring at me with irritation.

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ I reply in a deadpan manner, frustrated by her anger. ‘I’m not joking.’

‘Wait, you are serious? Oh. My. God.’ The male’s easy-going attitude evaporates on spot, and they rush to consult the doctors.

Soon, I am forced into another set of examinations. They attach strange things to my head, reassuring me it won’t hurt. I wonder if I ought to know what they are - if Joanne would have known what was happening. As it is, I don’t, and the urge to run away screaming grows with every goddamn look of pity sent my way.

A pleasantly smiling man in white coat explains, shuffling uneasily, that while they can’t determine the exact cause of my amnesia, it’s been known to occur after prolonged coma. My friends appear somewhat calmer after his comforting words that typically, the patients regain their memories in due time. However I can easily see through his uneasiness - obviously, they have no idea what’s wrong with me, just like they had no explanation for my sudden displacement. I don’t blame them for their confusion - I can hardly think of the less likely explanation than what had actually happened. 

Amnesia. Coma. I engrave the words in my memory, knowing I will use them a lot during the following weeks, if I am to achieve semblance of normality. I have fallen into coma, and now suffer from amnesia. That is the exact sentence I ought to be saying. I have fallen into coma, and now suffer from amnesia...

My friends introduce - although the better expression would be reintroduce, I guess - each other. Tim explains that he knew me since preschool and we’ve been close with Lisa ever since high school. I smile in reassurance, pretending I know what he is speaking about. All the schools and time I’ve spent there… Certainly I know I went to schools, but the details what exactly is pre and high school and why there are so many have been long forgotten. 

In the midst of this awkward reacquaintance, another man bursts into room, speaking right from the entrance.

‘Joanne, I’ve been so worried. I came as soon as I could. Are you feeling alright, honey?’

I most certainly do not feel alright, kind ser, but who might you be? I look at the man blandly, without even an ounce of recognition; although I do have a distinct suspicion as to his identity. His clear familiarity with me - intimacy would not be an overstatement - indicates connection exceeding that within bounds of mere friendship. He frowns in confusion, and Tim by my bedside clears his throat awkwardly.

‘Jeff, there’s something you need to know.’ He briefly explains the situation, and Jeff’s eyes widen with every word. He casts a questioning look my way, and I can only shrug neutrally, unwilling to say any more lies. The explanation provided by the physicians seems to work sufficiently well; although I do feel something vaguely resembling guilt, seeing disheartened, pinched look on Jeff’s face.

The situation becomes nigh unbearable, but blessedly, a nurse comes in saving the day and berating my visitors for tiring out the patient. Chastised like misbehaving children, they do not waste time, departing promptly - but not before Jeff’s reassurances that he will come and pick me up tomorrow, after I’m discharged.

I find myself extremely fatigued after their stressful visit. The day went by without my realizing it, and the reddening skies outside are a clear indication of the coming night. I barely hear the nurse’s explanation regarding the physical therapy I’ll need to attend - my muscles have partially atrophied during the time of inactivity. Ignoring her warnings I attempt to stand up, only to falter after the single step once I let go of the bed frame. The elderly female frowns in disapproval before dragging a wheelchair to my bedside. It seems I will be stuck on it until my strength returns.

They tell me I’m lucky it has been only seven weeks. That I’ll be up on my feet in no time. I certainly hope so; for it is downright mortifying when I’m struggling to open the door, and when the smallest effort leaves me heaving from overexertion. 

With the darkening skies another problem reveals itself. I do my best to hide my growing unease while the nurse takes my blood for some more tests, pondering on the situation. After finally finding a way out, I have no intention of letting the story repeat itself. I recall like it was yesterday that it was my dreams who were responsible for my prolonged entrapment in Thedas. And while I have no idea what triggers my connection between realities, I cannot count on it being severed simply by my return. I wreck my head, remembering that there was something which stopped it from happening. Something which cut off this cursed power of mine, prevented it from working.

But what, Gods have mercy on me, was it?

Finally, it comes to me, as I recall more and more of my life here.

Artificially induced sleep.

Biting my lip, I attempt to remember more. On Thedas I would know which combination of herbs would grant me such reprieve; or which glyphs would, upon activation, render their target senseless. Or what spell would make one take leave of their senses. But on Earth, I am lost.

Surely, there must be something. I am certain I used some method.

And then another nurse comes in, bearing evening meal along with a batch of strangely looking, colourful shapes near the plate. Seeing my suspicious look, she smiles indulgently, explaining for my sake.

‘Those are nutritional supplements, deary. Be a good girl, and remember to take all of the pills, would you?’

Normally her patronising tone would have pissed me off; but the epiphany I’m experiencing makes me overlook this transgression. Pills. On Earth, the plants are condensed into pills through complicated chemical processes. In laboratories.

After experiencing moment of triumph after having figured out a solution to my most immediate problem comes gloom. I am like a child, blindly searching for the knowledge I ought to have. Dragging out scraps of information and fitting them poorly in a makeshift patchwork to cover the holes in my memory. It is discouraging, how much I’ve forgotten. How strange and alien  **my** reality seems. 

Taking a deep breath, I reach to my diminishing reserves of strength. I’ll not falter. This is what I wanted; and I’ll not let it be said I regret my choice. I won’t allow myself to regret it. I am proud of my achievement, and I  **will** learn to live here again.

I remain awake throughout the night, reassuring myself and reaffirming my resolve. It is not only stubbornness keeping me awake, but also inaccessibility of the drugs. I do not want to draw unnecessary interest by inquiring for the sleeping pills - nor do I expect the doctors would be willing to grant me them. Not without fearing a relapse; and since I do not have any reasonable explanation to give, I resolutely keep silent. It ought to be much easier to arrange once I’m home.

Or so I tell myself, fervently praying for it to be true.

The following day I am beset by another wave of visitors; although this time I am not quite as confused. I might have forgotten their exact features, but the atmosphere and warmth of my parents’ love have kept me constant company - and were a constant qualm whenever I dallied - throughout my years in Thedas. My mother weeps in relief, rejoicing at my awakening. My younger brother - exempt from school for the day, or so I’m told by my father - smiles wanly, bravely reining in his emotions, although teary eyes betray him. My father is the only one to keep himself in check, but he too is clearly gladdened to see me well.

I easily perceive my supposed illness - being spirited away - put them through a lot. Mother looks frail, and even with makeup I can see dark circles under her eyes, implying many sleepless nights during the recent weeks. Father’s skin appears paper thin and had gained unhealthy shade of grey of a man avoiding outdoors for prolonged time; and I can’t help worrying how much time did the two of them have spent over my lifeless figure stuck in a hospital bed. 

Praying and begging the almighty to have mercy on their daughter.

I swallow tears instead of letting them flow freely. It is my fault they were suffering so, and it is my responsibility to put everything back together. 

After a couple more hours, I am assisted by them with the discharge paperwork. My physician comes before our departure and delicately breaks the news of my memory loss. My mother gasps, casting me a watery glance, but my father reassures her that this is a minor hurdle. The most important thing is that I woke up, and now everything will be fine.

How I dearly wish for his words to come true.

Jeff arrives as he had promised, bearing congratulatory bouquet with him; and I’m assaulted anew by the surreality of the situation when he presents them to me awkwardly. We do not know anything about each other now. I am being brought  **home** , but for me it means a stranger's place, accompanied by a stranger in a stranger’s reality.

Again I have an urge to scream.

I reach to my depleting reserves of fortitude, clinging with desperation to words which, ironically had been spoken with an edge of mockery - Pride is not intimidated by anyone, nor anything. And just like in Arlathan, a derisive statement becomes truth and my pride saves me from falling apart. And instead of screaming I smile genially, accepting flowers from Jeff’s hands with a cordial smile and murmured gratitude.

I’m ushered outside, supported by his strong arm and thankful that my weakness had abated enough to avoid wheelchair. Assaulted by unpleasant smells and noise of the city I do not attend properly to my family’s goodbyes. The city’s stench is dizzying and does not become any more tolerable when I enter the car. 

My hands shake slightly, and I tell myself as we cross the city that it is from relief and not wretchedness. That the tall buildings of glass and metal are comforting instead bulky and practical; and that while I can’t compare them to Arlathan’s blinding glory - this lie would be too thin to believe, even as hard as I try to convince myself - they are a magnificent achievement. That pollution and rush are signs of development and prosperity reaching to all stations instead of just nobility and not something to be borne with patiently.

Most importantly, here I’ll be able to determine my own fate. I have to remember that and then… everything will fall in its proper place.

So much grey, grey and black as opposed to the blinding white, but that’s fine, just fine.

Jeff’s car stops in a column of alike machines, and my boyfriend - another alien term to remember - murmurs uncomplimentary words about the traffic. I cast a surreptitious look his way, wondering what had attracted me to him all those years ago.

Certainly he is pleasant to look at, with his chestnut hair and expressive brown eyes, glancing at me with genuine warmth every so often. His face has regular features; which for their handsomeness do not diminish from his masculinity. No, he is decidedly male, and acts with confidence and decisiveness one would attribute only to a person of success. Vaguely I recall Tim mentioning something about his law practice going reasonably well in recent months, after his return from… Somewhere far, in any case.

I suppose he must cherish me as well - and I carefully avoid the word love and the definite way in which it sounds. His thoughtfulness shows in the many little ways in which he shows his care. He had remembered to reassure my parents of our impeding visit, and allay their concerns regarding problems related to my well-being with a few well placed remarks. It’s in the way he helped me to the car, obviously having consulted doctors about my physical needs. How he brought a gift along, and one I appreciate more than I expected - although for different reasons than he supposes, I guess. I hug the nicely adorned flowers, inhaling their fresh aroma to chase away the building nausea.

I ought to feel gratified. I ought to feel adored, appreciated and well-cared for. I ought to be happy, for I am finally where I wished to be with my whole being.

Instead I feel terribly lost and terrified; even in the face of the countless lies I’ve been feeding myself. Picking up where I left off - a hysteric laugh bubbles within me, deriding my naivety. Did I really think it would be that easy?

These first days dwindle in my hands in a restless haze, when I attempt to do and understand too much all at once. The technology overwhelms me; I do not think I was ever a computer whiz, but now it is an effort to remember to put the plug in. Mouse and keyboard as well as the cellphone turn awkward in my hands, and the Internet becomes a vast sea of many currents which pull me into meanders without ever reaching the correct destination. I do not know how to find what I am searching for when I am unsure what it is exactly that I want to find. I am not even capable of properly phrasing my own  **questions** .

Jeff is a saint. He patiently guides me through the most basic of tasks, assisting me with enviable devotion. Even when I flinch away from his unfamiliar touch - for years now, the only ones to invade my personal space were Fen and June. Even when I look in his eyes without understanding when he explains something I really should have known.

It only reaffirms my honest desire to do well by him. To learn to care for him again. And he makes it very easy to like him; and I hold genuine affection for him before my first month back on Earth is over.

I diligently attend physical therapy. It is not only for the weakening of my body, although that in itself is a factor. No, I need to deal with the strange dissonance my mind lives in; adjusted to the much different shape and reactions of my body and very different reality. On one hand, I feel too slow, clumsy, graceless, as my body cannot keep up with commands. Also, the gravity is an awkward thing to adjust to, as my movement is held back, chained to the ground, when I used to nearly fly.

On the other hand, the life itself is much quicker paced. I remember spending the days observing a single magical trick, slowly unravelling its nature and basics, until I had a complete grasp on it, to perfection – here, every action seems half-assed, as people rush between assignments, pulled from one task to another, a neverending tale of chase and run.

So I pull away, take a step back, and evaluate. Soon I figure out that trying to hold onto everything will only make me fail at everything. I need to choose, I need to prioritize - which parts of my life are the ones I care for enough to restore. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, because it seems disgustingly like capitulation; and I refuse to capitulate. But once I finally stop flinching at the unfamiliar sound of my voice coming out from my mouth, I decide it is time to stop procrastinating and focus on what I can do instead of letting it all fall apart. 

The first thing in the order of business is signing out of my University. With all the learning I already have on my plate, I do not feel like wasting my time reacquainting myself with things which took me years the first time around - I lack even the most basic of knowledge from high school. My parents argue against this decisions strongly, and finally, fed up with the endless discussions leading to nowhere I make a small concessions for their sake. Should my memories ever return, I promise them that I will take up the course back again.

It is a moot point for I know they never will; but they appear satisfied with the compromise and I take care not to disturb their peace of mind. Even though I twinge uneasily whenever the topic of my memories comes up, guilty for the necessary deception, but unfailingly I smile blandly and shake my head.  

With the end of therapy I throw myself into rebuilding my life. I find work at the local theatre, painting props for the plays and slowly recalling the correct way to hold brushes and mix colours. As my art progresses, I am recommended to a small advertising company, and earn a bit more cash while creating designs for posters. It is not a lot - especially in comparison with Jeff’s fat paycheck - but it is more than enough for my small needs. I do not need to wear brand names or access the latest technology; perfectly content to pass my days in peace and quiet.

Three months in, my life appears to be back on track. We have established a courteous rapport between me and Jeff; and while any intimacy remains out of question, I believe I am warming up to him. He takes me out on dinner dates, where we meet with Tim and Lisa who do their best to pretend my amnesia doesn’t bother them - even though I can see clearly in their eyes it does. But they tell jokes I pretend to understand and laugh politely in the places I feel I should; and we ease back into somewhat strained, but honest friendship.

Jeff has noted my reliance on sleeping drugs, but so far made no mention of it. To tell the truth, I dread the day of this confrontation, for I have no good answers for him. After reading the prescriptions, I know it is not healthy for me to continue on this way indefinitely, but I do not have any other answer for a dreamless sleep.

But other than occasional awkwardness and at times strange mistakes, everything remains peaceful. Everything is just fine, and I am -somewhat - happy where I am…

Only Fen’s words come back to haunt me in my dreams, sometimes.

_ ‘Or maybe there will be nothing left for you to return to.’ _

But I refuse the bleakness of my future to scare me; and I refuse to regret my choices. I convince myself that the shades of grey are instead all colours of the rainbow, and that my time here is well spent. That I am going forward.

And just like before, the lies seemingly fall into place, as I will them to become truth. And they do…

… to a certain degree.

 


	8. Misfit…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TH3 AWAK3N1NG - Ivan Torrent

At first I honestly try to recall, and once that does not work, relearn, how to love Jeff. I feel like I owe it to him to try; but I can’t force into my heart something that just isn’t there. Moreover, we are already in a stage of relationship where I am supposed to know - feel - that. Only I don’t. The things that I suppose from a lover’s perspective would have been endearing become simply annoying. At times I find him childish, annoyingly so – he reminds me of June sometimes in that respect, and it frightens me. Possessive, too, and that is equally creepy as I, almost against myself, run parallels between the two. I find him petty, because once his patience has run its course he blames me for forgetting him - and it is all the worse for me because he is right, even if he cannot know that.

He is right, and whenever I look at him I am forced to confront my guilt; and guilt is a very fragile building block for a working relationship.

I try to be patient with his perfectly understandable ill humour. I really, really do. And while it chafes me, abiding by his unreasonable requests and bowing my head for his desires, I do so. Because he loves me, even if I do not love him. Because I owe it to him to try. But it chafes. I’ve been caged once already and I refuse, **refuse** to submit to anyone’s whims anymore. Didn’t I escape Thedas to avoid this fate?

I feel increasingly more claustrophobic in our relationship; as I escape to work for longer and longer hours, I realize that this illusion of peace I have had has already begun to fall apart. That it crumbles and decays around me, washed away like a castle sand - falling further and further apart with every new wave of resentment and expectations I cannot meet; no matter how many times I dirty my hands in spite of myself - of my own desires, of my pride - to rebuild it.

And when I finally notice the profound sadness in Jeff’s eyes, hidden within ever-present frustration I realize it has been incredibly selfish of me to try in the first place. It takes me shamefully long to do so, but once I do, it haunts me relentlessly. For all my goodwill, I do not feel anything more than heartfelt affection for him - and he knows it. I can - and often do - fake peace of mind; placidity; calm when everything in me flinches away and screams - but love is not something I can pretend very well. He had to notice.

That’s when I realize that he deserves better. Because he will keep searching for the girl he fell in love with; bound to me by the hope of my memories’ return; and I know the girl is long dead. I have been selfish, trying to revive a corpse of relationship long rotten. Chaining him to myself to appease my guilt for my past treatment of him has been cruel. I need to let go; stop salvaging this thing between us just because of my stubbornness.

It is unseemly - more, it is desperately pathetic. And my pride, my sole support when I feel so terribly, terribly lost - my pride can’t stand me being pathetic.

So some six months after my return - or one hundred and eighty seven days, because I have been counting - I finally have the incredibly painful and yet unavoidable conversation with my boyfriend. We part amicably, more or less. I break it in as gently as possible that with no indication of my amnesia abating I just can’t see us working. I can see he wants to protest, but ultimately, nods with resignation. He has seen the signs of this - us - falling apart as well. We settle on my staying in his flat for a while longer, at least until I find a half-decent place of my own. He reassures me that it is no trouble; and that he couldn’t just chase me out in the cold simply because we are no longer together.

The very cliche words of us remaining friends after all this die on the tip of my tongue; because ultimately, I do not see us ever overcoming this barrier. At least until Jeff moves on completely, and who knows how long it will take. And even then I suspect he will be bitter about this - me. His last words, spoken with soft reproof, tell me as much.

‘You’ve changed.’

A scream rises in my throat. Of course I’ve changed, it’s been fifty years for me! But I cannot, because it had not been, not for the others on Earth. It forced me to develop a dual perception for my actions; dividing the ones Pride would choose and those Joanne would. Still, Pride is stronger and prevails the most in my behaviour because this is who I am; and because I base Joanne on unclear hints and words of others rather than my own knowledge. It is unnatural to me; and it shows.

But I want our split to end on a good note, so I reign in my disturbance and smiling falsely reply.

‘I will have to trust your opinion on that, since I wouldn’t know.’

With fervour of strong determination, I throw myself into moving out. My finances don’t allow for extravagance, but I soon manage to find a wonderful flat at a bargain price. It’s sole disadvantage is that it is in the suburbs; and getting to my work takes almost an hour. At the same time it is an advantage, because the city smell is diluted by the closeness of a small forest nearby, breathing fresh air into the whole area. It lessens my nausea and is one of the main reasons why I adore the place so much.

With the help of my friends and Jeff I am soon settled in and unpacked. It’s just four rooms - small bathroom and tiny kitchen, a single bedroom and a living room connecting all of these together. I immediately force Tim to move my bed to the living room and dedicate the former bedroom to become my study. I do not feel the need to entertain guests; and I would much rather have a bright, clear space for my painting.

Once my friends depart, I fling myself on the bed and breathe in deeply with relief. It is liberating, not having to pretend anymore. At least in the confines of these walls, which I can now call mine, I can be free.

I would expect that things would get better - for me to feel better - but surprisingly, nothing improves. It’s as if my stubborn clinging onto Jeff was related to a much more profound problem; and now that I do not have this illusion to hold onto, the dam breaks open. And I am flooded by depression I hadn’t known I was holding at bay.

I avoid mirrors. There’s a terrifying impression of déjà vu when I am forced to confront the reflective glass and see a stranger. The hair too grey and brown, missing the white and silver tones which made it so unique, the irises not bluish enough, and my skin too bland. The lines too plump, the figure too shapeless, is this really me? Who am I, where am I, what did I become?

Shifty eyes of a person out of her element stare right back at me, and I swallow a sudden gulp in my throat, angered, finally releasing a panicked scream that has been rising within me for these past months. Growing and growing until it was impossible to ignore anymore. I turn my gaze away, and with all of my frustration punch the offending mirror - if I cannot see what I want, then I would rather not look at all.

The glass breaks under my fist, a hole that cracks the entire surface.

I stand there, ignoring the blood flowing from the cuts on my knuckles.

This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

And as I look again at the cracked, disfigured reflection in a broken mirror, I find my determination anew. Like with a cracked glass, I can just put the pieces of myself back again, glue myself together. A completely new thing, a mix of both cultures. Pieces of Pride and Joanne, all mixed together - not the same, never quite the same, but whole.

It’s just not in my nature to whine and give up. I’ll learn again, I decide. There are things on Earth that I longed for during those four decades – it is high time I found them.

With my constant practice of painting, soon my past skills return and grow even further. Soon I feel confident enough to attempt more complex pieces than theatre props; and I find a second part time job at an advertising agency to fill my time. Tim tentatively suggests that I could get back to painting my own works; instead of wasting my potential in a backdrop playhouse. But I shake my head decisively, discarding his suggestion – the only thing that I could paint if I tried to reach my creativity is Thedas. And I’m not quite ready to face it yet.

My friends both think me a bit crazy. There’s no hiding that the dynamic between us changed; and there’s no avoiding the awkwardness, still colouring the edges of our relationship. Tim and Lisa are a bit lost, trying and failing to pick up on the pieces of the girl they once knew - only once they realize that this is simply not happening, they do not fall back on anger, like Jeff. No, when I am fully prepared to drop the acquaintance at the slightest sign of reproof, they completely blindside me with their complete readiness to befriend the **new** me. They consciously spare me the comparisons between Joanne they have known and the one they have before their eyes, allowing me to comfortably - if a bit uncertainly - settle into my new skin.

In the end, I do not return to normal, not entirely. I sometimes speak words in a language that does not exist, before catching myself and returning back to English. And I never swear in normally anymore, the words ‘Fenedhis lasa’ springing from my lips without my realizing it. I also do not find a common tongue with them, not like I could before, and more often than not I remain quiet, listening to their words with indulgent smile.

I play my part, futilely attempting not feel so much more mature than the lot of them – because they aren’t younger than me, only I got older that much faster. So I try my damndest, even if my motivation stems mostly out of my gratitude for their easy acceptance rather than my preference.

But then there are times when I scare myself. When I realize how much of Pride has slipped into me, and how little of Joanne really remains. There is my ease with which I can turn words around. I can squirm out of any situation by playing on people’s motivations and desires, assisted by the proficiency with which I can read them, efficiency in using it against them… My years in Thedas haunt me, when I masterfully dodge uncomfortable questions, avoid some topics.   

The other uncomfortable part of the equation is the fear that drives me. I take twice the dose of the medication, terrified that single one will not suffice. I jump at the shadows, and I become somewhat of a recluse, distrustful of others and unusually closed off – or that’s what my friends say. My once quite… well, I wouldn’t say optimistic, but definitely positive outlook on life has darkened, and it worries people around me. For them, it’s inexplicable – yes, I had a strange accident, but nothing really terrible happened, at least in their eyes. And even the loss of memories does not account for the major character shift I seemingly undergo in the matter of days in front of their eyes.

It’s the fear that finally does me in; because once the easy explanations no longer suffice, the people around me dig deeper; searching for a more definitive answer.

My parents are particularly stubborn; incapable to sacrifice the daughter they have raised in exchange for the stranger I have become. And finally they find the perfectly reasonable, in their eyes, scapegoat.

I am forced to hear numerous lectures on the dangers of addiction. I am dragged to physicians, psychologists and psychiatrists, who carefully explain to me the far-reaching consequences of the meds I am taking on a daily basis. I am even tricked into a complete character evaluation - and even when that doesn’t achieve anything, for my tests are inconclusive, my parents remain fixed in their convictions that the sleeping pills are to blame for everything that changed in my life for the worse.

At first I endure their actions with patience. I ought to understand their worry, I tell myself firmly, as they intrude into my carefully built, peaceful existence more and more forcefully. However, after the utter humiliation of the character evaluation - when I am forced to answer numerous invasive questions, probing into my privacy - I have had enough. I am not willing to compromise my pride for the sake of their peace of mind, it all has gone way too far. Without any remorse I manipulate my mother into promising not to attempt anything along these lines ever again.

I can tell she is not happy with me afterwards, but I am done sidestepping my own discomfort for my parents’ sake. I’ve come back home to avoid being forced into anything, and I do not intend to cater to their unreasonable demands.

With this, I believe the issue to be resolved, although I avoid family gatherings for a while, hoping my absence will dissipate their dissatisfaction with me. Their disappointment with whom I’ve become cuts into my heart like a knife; hurting me even while I pretend to be strong. Indifferent to their rejection of me, even while everything in me weeps regretfully. Suddenly I find myself desperately missing the wolf, and the way he accepted changes within me throughout the years without second-guessing them. He simply took me as I was - more, he uncovered hidden depths within me I hadn't been aware of - and the strained camaraderie I have with Tim and Lisa simply cannot compare.

I look in the awkwardly glued together mirror in my bathroom and question whether it was all worth it. Many long years spent on endless lessons; tears and sacrifices to return here. And for what? Tearful, broken up eyes stare back at me as I whisper to myself.

‘Nine hundred and eighty six days.’ Nearly three years of questionable freedom back on Earth, and my life is just as much in pieces as it was upon my return.

I can almost see a shadow of a large wolf, smirking at me derisively with a satisfied ‘I told you so’ shining in his stormy eyes.

The moment of weakness comes and goes, as I search - and find - strength to face my life again. I brace myself, and decide to confront my family again. Make them understand and accept **me;** because the alternative is simply unthinkable. I would not have spent forty years dreaming of return only to falter now that I have achieved it.

An occasion to mend our differences occurs two months after the unwelcome realisation of my own vulnerability - that I need others for my happiness. My father celebrates his fiftieth birthday; and my mother decides to mark it by a larger family gathering. In spite of my awkwardness in the crowd of semi-familiar faces, I strive my very best to avoid confrontations, putting on a pleasant front and chatting amicably about meaningless nothings. My mother looks at me with raised eyebrow, clearly seeing that something is amiss; but she decides to postpone questioning me until the guests’ departure.

It is only later when I see my empty face in a disturbingly pristine mirror in my parents’ house that I feel suddenly nauseated, recognizing my courtly mask from Arlathan. I wore it the whole evening without realizing it; deflecting the unwelcome attention as if surrounded by a sea of enemies - and not people I am supposed to have close ties with.

Really, what is the purpose of all this, if I cannot bring myself to open up to them?

My hands clench into fists, and only barely I stop myself from breaking yet another offending mirror. It wouldn’t do to add more to my mother’s suspicions… Throwing one last, disgusted look at myself, I quickly exit the bathroom before my impulse to destroy the reflective glass grows stronger than my restraint.

I drop onto the bed in my parents’ guest room and toss around for the whole night, troubled by nameless nightmares. The following morning does not bring forth any improvement, with me and my mother awkwardly dancing around the chasm between us; neither capable of overcoming her misgivings. However, despite the strained atmosphere I force myself to stay for the remainder of the week. Avoidance will not bring about any resolution; and I steel my spine to overcome this.

For the five days I have no success; butting my head against the wall of my their complete lack of understanding and presumptions regarding their own superior experience and knowledge. My - purely theoretical, at this point - youth is a distinct disadvantage during our countless arguments; and slowly, dejection and hopelessness of the situation begin clouding my resolve.

On the sixth morning, I wake to the sound of a car on a parking lot. Walking downstairs, I come upon the ringing doorbell. My mother stands up from the kitchen table, and calmly lets two strangers into the house – it’s clear she has been expecting them. Seeing their white coats, a shudder of inexplicable dread curses through my body. Still, I keep my voice placid, asking.

‘Guests for breakfast, mum?’

She shakes her head, and sighs.

‘I have tried talking with you, Joanne – but it all proved pointless. It is clear what you need is beyond me – you require professional help. Your father and I both agreed, and acquired the official injunction of unemancipation over you. As of now, you are officially considered as incapable of taking care of yourself – until the facility physicians declare otherwise.’ My eyes grow cold, as an unwelcome understanding of the situation creeps up on me. I knew that she was worried - and angry - but to take the situation that far because of a damn **sleeping pills** is stretching the intention of this particular law thin. It was only intended to protect those with self-destructive tendencies, for mercy’s sake!

As I fume in silent rage, holding back desperate screams against this injustice, my mother points in my direction with a wave of her hand. ‘This is my daughter, whom we spoke of.’

‘Your lack of understanding of the situation will make you regret this dearly.’ I spit out angrily, nearly choking as the words leave my clenched throat.                            

‘On the contrary, my dear’ she interrupts me impatiently, ‘I understand quite well you are addicted. Trust me, it is for your own good.’

‘I would like my daughter back’ she admits quietly, and I close my mouth with a snap. In the end, it turns out I failed miserably - they cannot comprehend the changes within me, and have rejected the person I’ve become. The feeling of defeat nearly crushes me, and Fen’Harel’s ominous words ring as clearly as if they have been spoken yesterday and not over forty years ago.

_‘Or maybe there will be nothing left for you to return to.’_

Seeing as the two white coats close in onto me, I lift my head high, stopping them with an extended hand.

‘I am capable of walking on my own.’ I say snappishly, unable to look at my mother anymore, lest my superficial calm leaves me. Yes, I might have lost my freedom yet again, but I refuse to be dragged out like a criminal - or worse, like an impaired animal. My right to reject this **help** might have been withdrawn, but I am stronger than this. Even in this circumstances I have one last thing going for me.

Pride.

I’m promptly ushered into the white car, and driven away to the rectangular building, which stinks of medicine and strong detergents. I’m numb, both from shock, and betrayal. How could she? No, how could **they** ? In order to procure the papers, my parents needed official witnesses of my self-destructive behaviour. They had convinced my **friends** to testify against me – all behind my back, without a word. I swallow a bile of bitterness, and sudden nausea.

I could see that things weren’t okay with my parents… But I had expected better of Tim and Lisa. That they did not trust me to make my own choices... That they pretended everything was fine while arranging this farce to happen… It is something I’ll never forgive - should I ever find my way back here. My faith in them was broken beyond repair.

My mood shifts, and by the time we arrive, I have to hold back the hysterical laugh, bubbling in me, as I am shown into my closely monitored room. After all my efforts, I’m still closed in a mental institution – although for all the different reasons than those I had initially feared. Not for madness but for addiction. Brilliant, Joanne. Just brilliant.

And there’s an irony of ironies, that after escaping the fate of imprisonment in one realm, I end up caged in another. So much for the so called freedom.

The well-meaning psychiatrist evaluates me during the day, and tries to reach me with her explanations of the necessity of getting over one’s dangerous addictions, being stronger than our weaknesses. I listen to her with sardonically raised eyebrow, and, without remorse, shred her to pieces with my sarcastic replies. She does not deserve my ire, or wrath, and truly wishes me well, but I am done with playing by the rules – I’ve tried, and it does not work.

Of course, there’s no way for me to escape this well-guarded facility, so I slowly reacquaint myself with the inevitability of my return to Thedas. My insides twist nervously at the very thought, as I hold onto the weak hope that my parents will somehow change their mind and call me back home. It is very weak, and dies quickly with as the second day passes and I become more and more tired by the hour.

Then I attempt to convince myself that maybe - just maybe - June has forgotten all about me. Centuries must have passed on Thedas, after all; and he was but a child when I was leaving.

And then I remember the passionate gleam in his eyes, and my hopes come crashing down, and I swallow a panicked scream. The sole thing holding me back is the offending camera in the corner, set to monitor my every move. I will not show them me falling apart under the strain - I will not show anyone this weakness of mine.

Even when everything in me quivers in fear, I bite on my lip and let the pain wash over me like a cleansing reagent. A trickle of blood drops from the corner of my lip; and for a single, blessed moment I am calm.

It’s not like I have any hopes of avoiding my fate, so I do not avoid sleeping on purpose – the nerves just keep me awake. My eyes become bloodshot, and soon I am too weak to take any action, to think.

The nurses say I’m stubborn.

I suppose, in a way, they got it right, though it is a bit of an understatement – I am far beyond stubborn. This is my pride. This is what freed me once, my iron will that upheld for four decades… and it will cage me this time back again.  

Finally even fear is not enough to hold the bone-deep weariness at bay. In the final moments of lucidity, I scribble a short message to my mother.

I know it’s petty of me. I know that I should have told her more, before, that maybe she would have believed me, before she became convinced I was an addict. But still, I’m far too bitter to be understanding. I can guess they will pick it up and deliver to her, once I’m asleep again, so I focus on it with desperation, barely keeping hold on my consciousness as I write with shaking hands a single sentence – but it’s enough to convey the venom of my thoughts.

**I told you so.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story can be picked up in Pride chapter 5 - Broken.


End file.
